


missing connection

by Wheat From Chaff (wheatfromchaff)



Series: everybody works [6]
Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Tim has a very bad month
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-17 06:04:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 23,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13070658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheatfromchaff/pseuds/Wheat%20From%20Chaff
Summary: Rhys gets in touch a match-making agency to find him a suitable partner in the hopes that it would get his mother off his back.Tim has a very bad month.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Special thank you to the amazing @[scootsaboot](http://scootsaboot.tumblr.com) for beta'ing!
> 
> I've split this into two chapters for ease of reading because it's fucking long!!!! Guess who wrote another novella about these gay idiots!!!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for mentions of child abuse.

The latest of Rhys’ problems began, as many did, during a luncheon with his mother.

He’d been ignoring her voice mails for weeks. Her messages became barbed, as ever, with motherly guilt and disapproval. It was a very familiar dance. Rhys claimed he was busy. His mother would sigh and lament the world she lived in, that her only and most dear child should be too busy for a simple lunch with his mother, who gave birth to him, and raised him (with the help of two nannies, the house staff, and a fleet of tutors). Ten years ago, Rhys would’ve folded as soon as he heard her voice grow heavy with the performance of sadness and disappointment. But he’d gotten older, gotten some distance, extracted himself from her clutches. It was easier to weather her disappointment now that he had breathing space.

Still, he wasn’t made of stone. After four weeks of dodging calls, four weeks that’d driven poor Todd to the brink of a nervous break-down, Rhys finally capitulated.

He arrived ten minutes early to the five-star hotel restaurant his mother had picked, only to find her already seated at the table with a glass of white wine in hand. Rhys sighed very quietly.

“Hello, mother,” he said, bending down to place a delicate, dry kiss on her cheek. “You’re looking well.”

She honestly did. Everyone had expected to see Mercedes Virginia Griffiths-Whyte take to aging the way all of her peers had: with surgery, make-up and thousand-dollar miracle creams. Instead of trying to fight the aging process, she had bent to it, the way a tree might bend in a tsunami. It was perhaps the only thing in her life she had ever relaxed herself to. The surgeries she’d gotten hadn’t erased her fine-lines, but they had mitigated them. Smoothed some without paralyzing her features completely. The creams made her skin glow, evened the tone, but they did not offer false firmness. She had only just crested her sixties, but she wore her sleek, short hair in shades of platinum. She looked like Anna Wintour’s best friend, the one she’d been envious of since high school.

“Why, thank you, darling,” Mercedes said as Rhys took his seat. “He’ll have a glass of the chabliss,” she said, passing her drink menu to the waiting server.

“I’m working today,” Rhys reminded her. Her silver rings flashed in the soft light as she waved his concerns away.

“Relax. One glass won’t hurt,” she said. “It’s not as if you drove here.”

Rhys frowned, but didn’t argue. He’d learned, from long and bitter experience, that he had to be very careful about the battles he picked. He had a feeling he would need to shore up his energy for whatever would happen next.

She wasted some time on inconsequential small talk, which Rhys followed and contributed to graciously. Apparently his father was on a boys’ only golfing trip in the Scottish highlands. Again. Rhys had spent perhaps one hundred hours total in his father’s presence, and exchanged maybe as many words, but if he knew one thing about the man, he knew that he loved the hell out of golf. More than once, Rhys had suspected it was the only thing he truly cared about.

He listened with half an ear as his mother wasted his time describing the last conversation she had with his father (he’d been feeling under the weather after eating the clubhouse food at Waterville). He let his mind wander to his personal schedule. There were still two meetings left after this, one of which would concern the Atlas Home Assistant AI, which had become Rhys’ favourite project. Every time he thought about the bright future, he thought about the ways artificial intelligence would ease the basic frustrations of existence, freeing humanity to focus on higher concerns. Such as space travel. Rhys’ inner ten year old still dreamed of flying on a rocket to the moon.

That was why, when their first course arrived, Rhys was unprepared for the shift in conversation.

“Where’s that young man of yours? That Lawrence boy?” Mercedes asked as she spread her napkin over her lap.

Images of silver craters under pitch black skies vanished from Rhys’ mind in an instant, replaced with a face he’d been trying very hard not to think of all day. He picked up his utensils and let none of his discomfort show.

“My body guard?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “He’s waiting with the car.” Where the help belonged.

Mercedes nodded as she began to pick at her wedge salad. “I thought he might’ve been joining us. Don’t you normally let him eat at the table with you?”

Rhys delicately shepherded his micro-greens onto his fork. “Why would I do that?” he asked.

“Because he’s practically been glued to your hip for the last year,” his mother said with an easy smile.

Rhys took refuge in his food, knowing that his mother would rather he set himself on fire than talk with his mouth full. He chewed carefully and slowly while he tried not to think about all the things he’d been avoiding for the last month.

After the aquarium, and after Rhys had to come to terms with certain facts, he quietly re-evaluated his relationship with Timothy Lawrence and didn’t like what his one-man enquiry had found.

Things between them had become inappropriate. Too impersonal. Too… intimate. It wasn’t proper to have someone like Tim joining him at the table during work meetings. Rhys had only done it in the first place because he liked being an eccentric, and because he’d wanted to parade Jack Lawrence’s twin brother around town like his own personal attack dog. Rhys had intended to stop once he’d gotten bored with the game, but… That had never happened. Something worse had happened instead.

Rhys couldn’t take back the year he’d spent with Lawrence, but he could correct the course of their future together. Tim stayed outside during Rhys’ business meetings. They still shared breakfast, but they rarely spoke. Rhys was far too busy. He built himself a phalanx of screens to hide behind, and when Tim tried to order Rhys to take a break, Rhys quietly but firmly reminded him of their positions.

 _Tim reeled back like Rhys had slapped him. He stared at Rhys, expression almost comical with surprise. Rhys turned his attention back to his screens, ignoring the baffled and almost hurt look Tim—_ Lawrence _tried to send his way._

_It wasn’t as if Rhys was doing anything wrong. The only thing he’d done wrong was let things get to this point in the first place. He’d let Lawrence grow accustomed to a certain amount of familiarity. That was his fault, Rhys could admit that, and he intended to set things straight. Fix it. Rhys stared at his screens._

_They were not friends. That was all there was to it. Lawrence needed to understand that. Tim picked up his plate and returned to his desk without another word._

Rhys dabbed at his lips. “I thought it would be amusing to parade Jack Lawrence’s brother around town,” he admitted with all the dignity of an emperor before the decline of Rome. “But it’s gotten a bit stale.”

His mother observed him over the rim of her crystal glass. Rhys could be as remote and untouchable as a mountain’s peak, but it never mattered when it came to his mother.

“Has it?” she asked.

She was one of the only people who could make him fidget. He fought hard against the urge. He hummed. “So, mother. What was so important you had to see me in person to talk about?”

Mercedes pulled her plum coloured lips into a magazine-cover pout. “That tone! So cold. That you could talk to your own mother as if she were one of your business rivals. Can’t a mother just ask for a simple lunch with her only son?”

Two mentions of the word ‘mother’, and already she’d started referring to herself in the third person. Her put upon expression of hurt was impeccable, which confirmed many of Rhys’ suspicions. She wanted something from him. He cast his mind back to her small talk, looking for clues.

“Of course a mother could,” he said as he mentally reviewed the tapes. “But _you_ wouldn’t. We just saw each other two months ago. If you didn’t want something, you would’ve been happy to wait until Thanksgiving to meet again.”

Mercedes poured all of her maternal disappointment into one gusting sigh. “So cold,” she said again.

“I learned from the best,” Rhys said archly as he speared a water chestnut. “Please, mother. I’ve only booked an hour for this meeting. I would appreciate it if we could get to the main agenda before our entrees arrive.”

Mercedes pursed her lips and sat back in her chair. She held her glass of wine up, signalling for a refill without looking away from Rhys’ face.

“You are very much like your father,” she said at last, her tone and expression so frustratingly neutral that Rhys couldn’t tell if she meant it as a compliment. “He was in his forties when we met. He was nearly 46 when I became pregnant with you. I was never unhappy with my decision to wed and bear a child for him, but I do sometimes find myself wishing he’d been a little younger.”

Rhys stared at his mother, decidedly caught off-guard. He had never heard his mother talk about his father like this before. When she spoke of him at all, it was usually about which city he was golfing in, or what vintage car he’d gotten. She spoke with a hint of fondness, always, the way one might talk of their friend’s dog. She never spoke of him as a… person. And then her words caught up with him, and the motives behind this meeting became very clear. He breathed in. “I’m only 28, mother.”

“Soon to be 29,” she said before taking a delicate sip.

“That isn’t _old_. I have plenty of time yet to have children,” he said firmly.

She sighed again, as much of a Sunday afternoon performance as the way she lowered her gaze to her plate. The Tired Mother Experiencing Disappointment at the Hands of Her Ungrateful Son.

“I am worried about you,” she said carefully. Rhys watched her warily as she sliced her wedge salad. “You work far too hard.”

Rhys nearly choked on his water. “That’s— That’s rich, coming from you,” he said through his coughing fit. Mercedes wrinkled her nose at him.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said.

“Please,” he wheezed. “Don’t act as if you had nothing to do with the way I’ve turned out. These were your values. ‘Hard work is good work’. ‘A man who doesn’t work is barely a man at all’. You practically had it embroidered onto my baby blanket,” Rhys said drily.

It was a pointless gesture. Mercedes did what she always did when he tried to confront her with her complicity in his upbringing and pretended as if he hadn’t said anything.

“You need a family, my dear,” she said. Rhys sighed as she went on. “You need someone at your side. Someone to take care of you. And you need a child. Or, dare I say it, child _ren_.”

“Mother…” He rubbed his forehead. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but I’m not…” He hesitated, his gaze flicking up to her face.

“Straight?” she said. Rhys dropped his hand. She smiled briefly. “Oh, please, honey. Who do you think you’re talking to? I am aware that your tastes aren’t only limited to women. And that’s fine. You’ll notice that I never once said you had to get yourself a _wife_. I don’t care if you marry a man, or even one of those nice ungendered people.”

“Non-binary,” Rhys said weakly. Perhaps the last word he ever expected to say over a soup and salad course with his sixty-one year old mother.

“I am aware that times have changed,” she said. “I watch Ellen. I follow that nice Neil Patrick Harris and his husband on Instagram. They adopted the most adorable twins. Marry whoever you like. Have children in the way that works best for you. I don’t care if you adopt. The only thing I care about is that you have a family at all. And that you give your children the Griffiths-Whyte family name, of course,” she added. She drank her wine. Rhys stared at her. “Oh, and your bride should get your name. Or groom. It’s only right.”

“Right,” Rhys managed. It seemed like the safest venue available to him.

“I’m glad you’re being sensible about this. I know it can be difficult to meet people when you are in such an important position,” his mother said as she began hunting through her purse. “A man of your status cannot simply create an account on Kindle-er or Cupid Hunt. You need a more discreet service. Here.” She straightened up and produced a business card with flourish.

“What is it?” Rhys asked, putting his utensils down with care.

“An agency designed to assist the discriminating lady or gentleman find a romantic partner,” his mother said. Rhys flinched back like she’d flicked a lit cigarette at his face. She clucked her tongue. “Come on now, don’t behave like that. There’s no shame in getting help when you so clearly need it.”

“I don’t think—“ he tried, but Mercedes only sighed once more. She reached across the table—showing just how serious she was about this venture, to break etiquette so brazenly—and tucked the card into his chest pocket.

“It’s an excellent service,” she went on, leaning back into her seat. “Both of Dottie’s kids have gone to them, and they were both married in months. Even Edgar’s boy found a bride, and you know he has that unfortunate chin. Give them a call. The woman who runs the service is the best in her field.”

“The field of match-making?” Rhys asked in disbelief. “Did she come from the old country?”

“Don’t be ignorant,” his mother said. “You need someone in your life, Rhys. I worry about you.”

“You don’t need to,” Rhys said, but his mother had fallen deaf to him once more.

“It’s not healthy to be alone for so long. You’ll work yourself to death at this rate. You need someone at your side. Call them as soon as you can. I’ve already spoken with the owner. She’s expecting to hear from you, Rhys.” His mother’s tone didn’t change, but Rhys heard the threat behind her words all the same. If he didn’t call, no doubt this woman would report back to Mercedes, and his mother could be as relentless as the Terminator. Poor Todd could be driven to an early grave.

The conversation turned and they finished their lunch in relative peace. Rhys kept up idle chatter while he desperately tried to think of a way out of his mother’s latest scheme. He could always not call the agency. Let Todd handle his mother. And if—hah, _when_ Todd broke, Rhys could always find someone else to replace him. Atlas was a big company. There were plenty of people he could put between himself and his family. Although it was hard to think of anyone who might stand up to the fearsome Mercedes Griffiths-Whyte.

Maybe Tim.

 _Lawrence_ , Rhys reminded himself angrily. Lawrence, Lawrence, Lawrence. Not Tim. Never Tim. Get it right, Rhys.

It didn’t take long to finish lunch. Rhys gathered his left-overs in his biodegradable to-go carton, kissed his mother once more on the cheek, made limp assurances that he would call the number she’d given him (she refused to release his arm from her taloned grip until he did) and finally broke free from the restaurant and onto the street.

Lawrence was waiting for him, leaning against Rhys’ vehicle at the curb. He was turned away from Rhys, his phone held up to his face. Rhys could see the lines of tension bracketing his eyes and, as he came closer, he could hear the strain in Lawrence’s voice.

“…not saying you can’t do it, I’m just asking for you to _wait_ until we can talk about this in person,” he said. He looked pale under his freckles, his free arm wrapped tightly around his chest. “Please. I know it’s important but—No. No, I know. I just need to hear what you want to tell them. That’s all I’m asking for.” His gaze snapped to Rhys. His jaw flexed. He straightened from his slouch. “I’ll have to call you back.”

“Was that a personal call?” Rhys asked as he held out his bag. He wondered if it was Marco.

“Sorry, sir,” Lawrence said, taking the left-overs and holding Rhys’ door open.

Rhys sniffed as he slid inside. “No personal calls while you’re on the clock, Lawrence. You know better.”

Lawrence pressed his lips into a tight line and slammed the door shut with more force than was strictly necessary. He climbed behind the driver’s seat while Rhys busied himself with his email. Over the last hour alone he’d received almost 70 new messages, many of them from the department head he was about to meet with in a few hours’ time.

“Did you have a nice lunch?” Lawrence asked, voice smooth and professional once more. Rhys made a noncommittal noise as he typed a reply.

What if it _had_ been Marco? Lawrence had been taking more calls like that recently. More than once, Rhys had found him glowering at some message on his phone. Suppose there was trouble in paradise?

Rhys bit his lip and repeated the mantra he’d been trying out for the last month. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter if they were hitting a rough spot. It didn’t matter if they were getting married. None of it mattered at all because Timothy Lawrence was just an employee. He was no one special.

“It was your mother, right?” Lawrence asked as the car slid to a graceful stop at a light. He tried to catch Rhys’ eye in the rearview. “How did it go?”

Rhys stared at the screen without really seeing it. He wondered what Tim’s relationship with his mother was like. Two months ago, he would’ve asked him. Two months ago, he would’ve happily grumbled to Tim about his nightmare mother on the ride home. He would’ve teased Tim for the way he still put his hands on the wheel, even as the car drove itself. He would’ve told Tim about the incredibly dated and very 80s menu and décor of the place she’d chose. The place had looked as if it hadn’t updated a single thing since wearing power suits and doing blow in the bathroom between courses was in vogue.

God help him. Two months ago, Rhys would’ve introduced Tim to his mother. He really would have.

“Keep your eyes on the road, Lawrence,” Rhys said as he clicked open a new email.

Lawrence settled in his seat. He turned his gaze obediently forward.

“Sorry, sir,” he said.

They didn’t speak for the remainder of the ride back to the office.

* * *

That evening, Rhys poured himself a small drink, sat down in his living room and examined the business card while he waited for his left-overs to reheat. He’d admired the simple, elegant script. The matte finish of the embossed text. It showed that the proprietor had taste, which, he supposed, was a good sign.

His mother had been so insistent that he call. For that reason alone, he wanted to throw the card away. That his mother would go so far as to meddle in his affairs like this was never a surprise, but it always rankled. He was an adult, for Christ’s sake. And his mother wanted him to call a _match-making service_.

Then again…

Lawrence had escorted him home that evening, just as he had been doing every evening for the last four months. Since their little… disagreement, back when Tim was making eyes at one of Rhys’ employees, when Rhys wasn’t behaving like a decent boss.

Lawrence had tried to talk to Rhys a little, but he’d gotten better about it. He kept his chatter strictly to work matters, discussing their upcoming schedule, informing Rhys of security details he would need to know. He was professional, polished, completely impersonal. Just as Rhys had trained him to be.

The first week had been the worst. Lawrence had gotten too used to the way things had been. He kept trying to pry into Rhys’ business. Rhys had to remain firm with him. Remain distant and aloof, keep his answers brief and ignore anything that didn’t pertain to their working relationship. Lawrence hadn’t taken to it easily. At first he seemed angry. He would slam doors and grit his teeth and glare at the back of Rhys’ head.

Rhys ignored the tantrums. By the second week, Lawrence finally broke. He took advantage of their elevator ride down to the parking garage to ask Rhys flat-out if he was being punished.

 _“Punished for what?”_ Rhys had asked without looking up from his phone.

Lawrence pushed his hand through his hair, huffing and puffing in his usual show of annoyance. _“I don’t know. Just—Have I done something to upset you? Because if I have, I would rather you just told me instead of playing these games. We can talk about it.”_ He’d sounded frustrated, but there was a pleading note in his voice that punctured through Rhys’ ice shell and right into his heart.

Rhys had to force himself not to look over. He took several silent, calming breaths before he spoke again. _“You haven’t done anything wrong,”_ he explained calmly. _“This is just the way things are now.”_

Lawrence had stared at him, looking very young. Even with his years of ice prince training behind him, Rhys could only bear to look into his face for no more than a second.

He turned back to his phone, and continued, _“It’s the way things should’ve been from the start.”_

After that, things had changed. The looks Lawrence shot Rhys’ way when he thought wasn’t looking had no anger in them at all.

Rhys ignored them too. He sighed and drank.

 _That_ was what really stopped him from throwing the card away. Not his mother’s feigned concern about his personal life. All her soft talk about finding someone to settle down with, to make him happy… Rhys wasn’t fooled. She just wanted grandkids and Rhys had the misfortune of being the only person who could provide them.

The mere fact that he was so lonely, so desperate for a connection, that he’d actually allowed the Lawrence situation to go on as long as it had... It was unfortunate, and as sure a sign as any that maybe he really did need some company.

When was the last time he’d gone on a date? Rhys had to think on it for a while, which was answer enough. When was the last time he’d shared his life with someone? Come home to someone?

He tipped his head onto the back of his leather couch and stared up at the skylight high above. There wasn’t much to see, of course. Light pollution washed out all but the most dedicated and brightest stars, but even those were hard to see from Rhys’ limited view.

Tim had a balcony. A dinky thing on his fifth floor apartment that looked out into the alley behind his building. Rhys remembered Tim walking out onto it during dinner to take a call from his brother, how the heavy door stuck a little when he tried to close it behind him. Even with Angel chatting in his ear, Rhys had wanted to follow Tim outside. It’d looked chilly and Tim hadn’t brought his jacket. He would need someone to bring it out for him. Or maybe just someone to wrap their arms around him. Keep him warm. Rhys’ mind had been filled with all kinds of foolish notions, back then.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long sigh. Stop it, he told himself. Leave it alone. Move on with your life. Let T— _Lawrence_ move on with his.

Rhys finished his drink, picked up his phone, and made the call.

* * *

‘A Match Made in Heaven’ was perhaps the obvious name for a match-making service, and Rhys wondered just how many of them chose it for their business.

He thought about the sort of woman who ran such a successful company with such an obvious name. The sort of woman who introduced herself as ‘Moxxi’ to the elites in his mother’s circle without, apparently, an ounce of shame. He considered these things because it was easier to think about than what was waiting for him in their scheduled meeting.

When Rhys arrived to the small, boutique-like downtown office, he didn’t even have to wait. The large woman behind the reception desk sprung to her feet and smiled at him as soon as he walked through the door. She told him that Moxxi was ready to see him, and if he would just follow her…

There were others waiting in the front entrance, seated on a comfortable-looking heather grey couch. They all looked up from their glossy magazines at the mention of Rhys’ name. He could feel their curious gazes on the back of his neck as he walked past. If _he_ had any shame, or cared at all about what a bunch of nobodies thought about him, he might’ve been embarrassed.

“Ms. Moxxi Yarnell,” he greeted with a smile as soon as the door whispered shut behind him. A woman Rhys could only describe as ‘buxom’ stood from behind her mahogany desk and offered him her hand.

“Mr. Rhys Griffiths-Whyte. What a pleasure.” She had a voice like a southern summer, and it made Rhys sweat under his collar to hear it. “Please, have a seat.”

He thanked her and sat. She folded her hands onto the surface of her leather blotter and launched right into it. She told Rhys about the services he could expect to receive with Match Made in Heaven, and the successes they’ve had in the past. She repeated to him what his mother had told him, about Eugene and the other awkward ducklings of his childhood. He listened politely, and tried not to watch the clock too openly.

“We have a success rate of 92%. That means that almost every single one of our clients walks away from this office arm-in-arm with the honey of their dreams.” She sounded confident. Rhys enjoyed the contrast of her sweet accent and the firmness of her tone. She leaned forward a little, and Rhys had to force himself to keep his eyes on her face. “We cannot make guarantees of happiness, Mr. Griffiths-Whyte. No one can. I just want to be honest with you. That ain’t the kind of business we’re in. But I can guarantee that you will receive our absolute best efforts.” She spoke like a general promising to bring hostages home. Rhys had to fight not to smile.

“I appreciate that,” he said, very seriously. Moxxi’s ice-blue eyes might’ve twinkled a little behind her thick lashes.

“I’m glad. Now.” She sat back, relaxing a little. “Let’s get to it. In order to calculate your best possible match, I’m going to need some info.”

“Like a questionnaire?” Rhys had been expecting this. Yvette had mentioned it when he went to complain in their group Slack. “Do you need to know my preferences? My sign? If I were a meal, what kind of meal would I be?”

Moxxi gave him a very polite smile. “Not exactly.” She uncapped a golden fountain pen. “I ain’t after anything as precise as that. I don’t deal with precision, Mr. Griffiths-Whyte, because there ain’t nothing precise about the heart. These questions are just going to give me an idea of the type of person you are. What you value in others. That sort of thing.”

Rhys raised an eyebrow. “Oh, is that all?”

Moxxi’s smile became more polite. “That’s all. So. It’s Sunday morning. You were out late last night, on a date with someone you’ve been seeing for a while. What did you do? And did they stay the night?”

Rhys shifted in his seat. This was turning out to be as uncomfortable and as silly as he’d feared. “Uh. We went out for dinner.”

“Where?”

“A restaurant?”

“What part of town? A nice place? Some place you’ve been before? What kind of food do they serve there?”

Rhys frowned and racked his brain for the details of his imaginary date. Moxxi looked up from her notes and gave him a sympathetic look.

“Now, there’s no need to stress. Just say the first thing that comes to mind, sugar,” she said.

“Uh.” Rhys tried again, forcing himself not to think too hard. It reminded him of the sort of free-association activities he used to do in school, in the few theatre classes he took because he’d heard it would improve his speaking abilities. (And because he’d had a crush on the teacher.)

“We went to… a Vietnamese place, one of the older places in China Town. We had pho. It’s not our first time,” he said.

The image came to him easily and he could picture the dark interior of the pho restaurant. See the fog and dew form on the picture windows, warmed from the steaming bowls inside. Rhys could feel the cheap chopsticks, taste the noodles and the garlic-mushroom broth.

“I like this place because it serves vegetarian pho. They like it because the beef pho is one of the best in town. And they make it as spicy as you like.”

A bowl of fresh, sliced chilies served on the side. A large hand reached for it and pulled it closer, because Rhys’ tolerance was low and he liked to add hoisin sauce and bean sprouts to his anyway.

Moxxi made a few notes, her pen gliding across her note book. “Did you go home right after?”

Rhys nodded, feeling silly. “We did. We were tired. We’d been… Um. Working.” His throat tightened. He looked down at his hands.

“You work together?” Moxxi asked.

“No,” Rhys said quickly, the image in his head going up like steam. “No, no, no. Nothing like that. We were working on… separate jobs. In other companies.” He cleared the roughness from his throat.

Moxxi pursed her lips but said nothing. “Back to the morning. Did they spend the night?”

“Yes,” Rhys said, grateful to move on.

“What time do you wake up?”

“Well. I’m an early riser,” Rhys said. “But they like to be lazy when they can. Sunday mornings are the laziest mornings, so they would try to stay in bed for a while.”

This was easier. Rhys’ imaginary partner became less defined in his head, less dangerous to think about. Plenty of people were lazy on Sunday mornings.

“That sounds nice. Do they try to keep you in bed with them?”

He would. He would wrap his arm around Rhys’ waist and pull him back down. He would bury his nose in the crook of Rhys’ neck and grumble about the hour, and how they had all day, and if Rhys even thought about sending an email or making a single call to the office, he would tie Rhys to the bed. Like that would dissuade Rhys.

Moxxi’s smile became a little sly. “I’ll take that as a yes,” she said, correctly interpreting the flush on Rhys’ face. “When you do get up, who makes breakfast? And what do you make?”

“We’d make it together.” Because he hated Rhys’ kitchen. Didn’t trust it. And he always got so grumpy when he was left to his own devices in Rhys’ high-tech home. “I’d make the coffee, though.” Because Rhys had very exacting standards. Too exacting for Sunday morning.

“Is this person a good cook?” Moxxi asked.

“Not the best. He— _They_ have certain dishes they’re good at making, but they’re not a master chef or anything,” Rhys said, feeling exposed and almost sad. He should stop this stupid fantasy, he knew. He should plug someone else into the role of his ‘mystery’ partner, but he couldn’t seem to think of anyone else. It made a horrible, weak part of him very happy to play out this fantasy.

 “What do you make?” she asked.

“Omelettes,” Rhys replied. “They’re good with eggs. Which is good for me because I need the protein,” he said.

Moxxi nodded and made another note. Rhys appreciated her low-tech approach to this meeting. It somehow put him in mind of his old therapist, complete with the games of make-believe. He waited for the next volley of questions, but she only wrote for another moment and then put her pen down.

“Alright. I think that’s good for now,” she said.

“Really?” Rhys asked, surprised.

She nodded. “It paints a good picture of what you’re looking for. Now, I understand you’re interested in men and women, so—“

“Just women,” Rhys said quickly, without thinking. Moxxi paused with her eyebrows raised. Rhys flushed. “Sorry. I do like both, but… Right now, I just want to date women.”

Moxxi recovered easily. “That can be arranged, no trouble. Let me know if you change your mind.”

Rhys promised that he would, although he knew he was lying. Somehow the thought of dating a man… struck a little too close to the situation he was desperately trying to escape from. A woman was a step back from it all. Safer.

Lawrence stood next to Rhys’ car on the curb. He had his arms crossed tightly over his chest and his head turned to the side, gifting the world with the view of his absurdly chiselled jawline, the curve of his Roman nose. His eyes were hidden behind his large, black-out sunglasses. His plain blue tie fluttered in the breeze.

A jogger with a dog actually turned her head as she ran past, and Rhys couldn’t blame her. Rhys could barely bring himself not to stare when Tim looked up at last.

“Sir.” Lawrence straightened from his stiff pose and opened the door. Rhys felt grateful for his own aviators, even if Tim had made fun of him the first time he wore them out. Rhys remembered the way he’d chuckled, flicking the thin, golden frame.

 _“Just admit it. I look good,”_ Rhys had insisted.

 _“You look like you’re trying very hard,_ ” Tim had replied with a grin.

Rhys swallowed past his tight throat as the car door clicked shut after him. He still felt as if he were trying very hard.

He had to fight with every instinct not to tell Tim about what he’d just put himself through. That he couldn’t even laugh with him about it hurt more than he cared to think about.

The engine smoothly purred to life under their feet. Lawrence keyed in their next stop. Rhys looked out the window and tried not to think about the taste of vegetarian pho, and the feeling of steam on his knuckles, while he tried not to laugh at Tim’s diligent attempts to keep soup from splashing on his shirt. He’d tossed his tie over his shoulder, Rhys remembered. A line had formed between his eyebrows as he tried to eat without making a mess.

This is stupid, Rhys thought, and not for the first time. Just talk to him. Just tell him you want to get lunch. Just tell him you’re sorry. Tell him you miss him. Call Moxxi and tell her you don’t need her services after all. You’ve already found someone. It doesn’t have to be hard.

Rhys swallowed it all back. It was childish of him to have these thoughts. Life wasn’t just a romantic movie. Tim was an employee. Rhys was only his boss.

Rhys pulled out his phone and opened his email. They rode back to the office together in thick, suffocating silence.

* * *

Moxxi contacted Rhys the very next day. She emailed him a name (Jessa Harlen) and a brief profile (Age: 26; Profession: sound tech at a television studio; Favourite Snack: sour cream and onion chips). Rhys felt tempted to ignore it and get on with his work day, but as Lawrence set Rhys’ breakfast on his desk, Rhys forced himself to reconsider.

He wrote a one-sentence reply, indicating his interest. Less than five minutes later, Moxxi sent him an email containing nothing more than a time and an address.

“Guess I’ve got a date tonight,” Rhys said, too stunned to remember why he shouldn’t.

“Sounds nice,” Lawrence said, already on his way back to his desk with his plate. “Send me the address and I’ll have Athena’s team check it out.”

The security sweep was fine and that evening, Rhys found himself seated at a two-person table in an intimate little Portuguese restaurant on the lower west side of the city, sitting opposite a charming woman with relaxed, straight hair, a set of big, beautiful brown eyes, and wide lips painted a shade of red-violet that almost perfectly matched the large, painted orchid print on her white dress.

The Match Made in Heaven agency had given them both little conversation cards, things they could ask each other if they felt they needed the nudge. Rhys had barely had time to glance at his before he left the office. Jessa admitted she hadn’t had much opportunity, either.

“Are you really busy these days?” he asked.

“I’m busy most of the time,” she said with something like a grimacing smile. “You know that game show where they’re playing a game of poker? With the giant cards and the shadowy guy in the glass box?”

“I think so,” Rhys said, his brows pulling together. “The Million Dollar… Something. Bet?” She nodded. “You work on that show?”

Jessa laughed and put her hand lightly against her forehead, a gentle smack. “It’s so stupid,” she said. “The dumbest show on television.”

“That’s a tall order,” Rhys said without thinking. He froze, but Jessa only laughed again.

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those ‘I don’t even own a television’ types,” she said as she selected a roll from their complimentary basket.

“I own a television,” Rhys said. “I just… don’t have a lot of time to watch it.”

Jessa hummed as she carefully tore the roll into two pieces. “I guess that’s the life of a CEO.”

“Yeah, I don’t… really have a lot of time for anything,” Rhys said. He gripped his glass of white wine and took a sip. Jessa only hummed again, but didn’t offer anything in response.

Rhys bit back a sigh and resisted the urge to look at the time.

This, he thought as he signalled the server for another glass, was exactly why he didn’t like dating. If this were a business meeting, he would know what to do, what to say, where to put his hands, where to put his eyes. Rhys was a corporate animal. Any time he was forced out of his enclosure and into the wild, he felt as if he was in danger of being eaten.

Maybe, he thought as Jessa buttered her roll in silence, that was a bit over-dramatic. He decided to give the conversation cards a shot.

“If you could hop on a plane right now, where would you go?” he asked.

“Ooooh.” Her expression became dreamy. “Paris. I love Paris. I know it has a reputation, but it’s so beautiful. I really think there’s something magical about it. It’s very romantic.”

“Yeah. It’s nice.” Rhys tried to think of Paris and how he’d seen it the last time he’d gone. He’d spent most of his time inside his presidential suite, behind his laptop, rewriting the second half of the presentation he was supposed to give the next morning. When he relayed as much to Jessa, the brightness of her smile dimmed a little.

“You didn’t see the city at all?”

“Well…” The last time Rhys had gone to Paris had been almost seven months ago. And he would’ve stayed in his room all night, had Tim not burst in and dragged him out for a drink and a meal in the hotel’s restaurant.

It all came back in a rush and once again Rhys felt transported back to that moment, with Tim seated across from him at a small table beside the floor-to-ceiling windows. A French 75 cocktail at his elbow. The server almost looked disdainful when Tim placed the order, and Rhys teased him for being so cliché, but Tim didn’t care. He’d never been to Paris before, he told Rhys. He’d smiled at Rhys, like Rhys had done something special. Rhys wanted to tell him that they were there to work, but Tim’s pleased expression had knocked all the wind from his sails.

Rhys could remember just how good Tim had looked, with his head turned down towards the city of lights. There was almost nothing to read the menu by except for the flickering candle at the centre of their little table, which allowed them to see the city more clearly through the windows.

Rhys’ leg jiggled under the table, and his restless thoughts kept pulling him back to his laptop, to the abandoned report still sitting on his screen like an accusation.

Tim finally tore his gaze away from the view and caught Rhys’ eye. “ _Relax, boss,”_ he’d said. “ _You’re gonna be fine tomorrow. Just enjoy this.”_

In the present tense, Rhys took another drink of his wine and prayed his date might excuse his growing flush on the alcohol.

“What about you, Rhys?” Jessa asked after another awkward pause. “Where would you go?”

Tim’s apartment. To the other side of the world, far away from Tim. Rhys sipped his wine and tried to think of the last city he’d visited without Tim at his side.

“Bos…ton,” he said at last.

Jessa stared at him, her smile flagging. “Oh,” she said.

Rhys emailed Moxxi that night and informed her that Jessa was lovely, but she was not a good fit. He would not be surprised at all if Moxxi hadn’t received a similar message from Jessa.

* * *

Moxxi invited him back for another lunch meeting the next day.

“I think we need a little more information about you,” she said, calm as anything. He agreed, because there was something about her tone that put him in mind of old teachers and their long, whippy yardsticks.

“Should we play out another scenario?” she asked after the preliminary niceties. Rhys agreed again, because there didn’t seem to be any other option available to him. “Alright. Imagine you’ve gotten into a minor accident. Nothing serious or life-threatening, but you do have to go to the emergency room. What do you tell your partner? And how would you tell them?”

Rhys chewed his lip as Moxxi’s assistant arrived with a silver tray and his espresso. He tried to think of just how he might let this metaphorical person know he’d been injured.

“Remember, Rhys, you don’t have to think so hard. Just say the first thing that comes to mind,” Moxxi said.

Rhys fought against a wince. The last time he’d done that, he ended up playing out an imaginary date with the person who had driven him to this stupid service in the first place. He had to get firm with himself.

Right. He’s injured and waiting in the emergency room, for some reason. Although money would mean he wouldn’t have to wait long. He wondered if maybe he should mention that to Moxxi.

“Rhys,” she said, a little less gentle now.

“Uh. I call them,” Rhys blurted. “No— Text. I send them a text. A quick one. Telling them that I’m fine and they don’t need to worry about me. And. Maybe I’ll be late? To… dinner?”

Moxxi uncapped her pen and made her notes. “And what do they say?”

“They would insist on coming anyway,” Rhys said without hesitation. “They wouldn’t even argue. They would just… be there.”

Maybe a little panicked, but never willing to show it. His lips pressed into a tight, white line, his forehead laddered with wrinkles, hands fisted at his sides. He’d relax only when he saw Rhys, when Rhys would laugh at him for getting so worked up in the first place.

 _I told you I was fine_ , Rhys would tease, pulling him down to sit beside him.

 _Yeah, but you’re wrong a lot_ , he’d reply.

Moxxi looked into his face for a moment longer, waiting and expectant, but Rhys’ throat was tight and he could think of nothing else to say.

* * *

For the next two weeks, Rhys found his social calendar fuller than it’d been in almost five years. Maybe ten years. He’d spent most of his post-graduate education locked up in his private rooms, or at the library, or in the catacomb-like depths of the research stacks.

He dated more women than he’d ever dated in his life, easily tripling his life-long record in the course of two weeks. Every night he met with someone new.

There was Katherine, an old-fashioned name for a very modern woman, with her degrees in bio-chemistry and a fascinating job with a cosmetics company, where she designed and created scents for their line of skin-care products. They met at an upscale dim sum restaurant and she asked Rhys what his favourite way to spend the weekend was, and Rhys spent an embarrassing ten minutes trying to come up with an answer that didn’t involve work. What he thought of eventually was travel, a drive down the coast to watch the leaves change in October.

She thought it sounded very romantic. Rhys supposed that it did. Although when he conjured the image of himself in his sleek car—manual, for this drive—he did not see the lovely Katherine seated beside him.

After Katherine, there was Bremely, the professional composer and professor of music theory. Bremely smiled more than anyone else Rhys had ever met, ordered the sweetest drink on the menu, and seemed enthusiastic about everything she talked about. She told Rhys about new compositions, and the global frontier of new music. Rhys was generally happy to listen to anyone who cared that much about what they did for a living, although he struggled to keep up with the jargon she used. He’d taken piano as a boy, and that was the extent of his contributions to the conversation.

Eventually, she flushed and seemed to become embarrassed by the amount of time she’d spent talking, although Rhys assured her he didn’t mind. When she asked him if he was more of a cat person or a dog person, Rhys sheepishly admitted he didn’t have pets. But he… knew someone with a cat.

There was Sonia, a short woman with waist-length hair. She owned two successful restaurants in the city, and intended to open a wine bar in the spring. She had tattoos of kitchen implements and knives, bundles of herbs and vegetables, painted up and down her toned arms. They met at a cave-like nose-to-tail restaurant close to the harbour, and got drinks at the very exclusive upstairs bar. She told Rhys flatly that her industry was a true meat-grinder and her work was her life. Rhys felt almost immediately comfortable in her presence and thought perhaps this one might go somewhere. When she asked him what his absolute favourite food was, he happily told her about all the places he’d been sampling over the last few months. He impressed her, just a little, with the depth of his knowledge.

When she asked him how he found the time to keep up with the latest in restaurant openings, he had to admit that it wasn’t him, but his bodyguard.

“Oh, right,” she said, fiddling with her straw. “I’ve seen him. He’s cute.”

There were others, and they were all nice, or they weren’t. They were cute, or beautiful, or interesting-looking. Rhys tried hard to like every one of them, and sometimes it was easy, but at the end of every night he returned home alone and unsatisfied.

He felt like a man who’d gone hungry at an all-you-can-eat buffet. Staring at the chafing dishes, at a mouth-watering array of the finest foods prepared by the world’s most skilled chefs, and feeling like the only thing that could satisfy his hunger was a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Made at home.

Home once again after yet another failed love connection, Rhys rubbed at the bridge of his nose and stared down at his kitchen counter while he waited for his tea to brew. Moxxi had been patient with him through the process, but he wondered if she was starting to get suspicious that his heart wasn’t in these proceedings. She never seemed to become discouraged by his pickiness. She merely called him back for another round of questions and make-believe.

Rhys leaned over his counter and scrubbed his hand through his hair. _Those_ were starting to get to him, too. It didn’t matter what scenario she presented him with, Rhys could not force himself to stop thinking of how it would all play out with Tim as his partner. Every time. Regardless of how mundane the situation, Rhys found himself returning again and again, to what he was starting to think of as his happy place.

But it wasn’t happy. Every time Rhys thought about it, he could only think of how badly things would turn out. He remembered Sasha.

Rhys could remember lying on his bed in his darkened room, listening to every sad song on Spotify. He could remember the empty days stretching into empty nights, the hours blurring together, entirely meaningless. Missed classes and missed deadlines. He could remember the food lost its flavour, the way he avoided leaving his bed, even to shower. Sasha had nearly killed him.

His only mercy was that he could not really remember the feeling of the pain itself. Not in its truest sense, not in the way it forced the young man he once was to explore its every inch. As if heartbreak were a landscape he could get lost in. A desert he could starve in. He’d felt for certain that he would. Rhys tried very hard, every day, to put Lawrence from his mind. To put the same distance between himself and their history, the way he had with Sasha. Building a wall of professionalism and propriety, wing-tips and tie pins, scheduled meetings and security sweeps. The way things should have been from the start. Short of locking himself in his room and listening to Bon Iver, he didn’t know what else he could do.

Except… An awful, mean, and small part of him knew there was one thing he hadn’t tried yet. One thing that might work. If he really wanted distance, really wanted to get away from Timothy Lawrence, he could always fire him.

It made Rhys sick to consider, but he was too much of a professional not to think of it. He could fire Tim. HR wouldn’t like it, because it would open Atlas to a liability suit, but Rhys knew that their expensive fleet of corporate lawyers would offer Tim a generous settlement. The problem would go away. _Tim_ would go away, and with a hefty parting gift in his bank account. Win win. In theory.

Rhys gulped down scalding white raspberry tea like a penance. He couldn’t do it. He knew he couldn’t do it. Keeping Tim at arm’s length was doable. Letting him go completely…  just wasn’t.

* * *

It was late September when Rhys finally agreed to see someone for a second date. He picked Sonia because he liked her drive and her ambition. He especially enjoyed her arms, which looked impressive in the sleeveless dress she’d worn during their last date.

If Moxxi was surprised with his selection, she didn’t show it. She merely told him that she would inform Sonia and that would be the end of her involvement in this relationship, should it go any further. From then on, Rhys would have to get her number himself if he wanted a third date.

“I don’t know if I will,” he admitted to Moxxi over the phone.

“Take it one step at a time,” she advised him. _“_ Don’t get too lost in your own head, sugar. Just play it cool.”

Rhys looked over to Lawrence’s desk, where his bodyguard sat with his head supported by one hand, his glazed eyes fixed on one of three screens set in front of him. It might’ve been the violet light cast over his face, but he looked tired. Worn out. Rhys hid a frown and turned his chair away.

“I’ll be as cool as I can be,” he promised.

A moment later, a message pinged in his inbox. Another time, with another address.

“Another date?” Lawrence asked, rousing himself from his slouch. Rhys nodded and flicked the message to his desk. Lawrence called up a map and examined the location from the satellite view.

“Looks nice,” he said, with his usual unnecessary editorializing. “I’ll bring it to Athena.”

Rhys nodded again, already calling his dormant work screens back to attention. He resumed his bug hunt on the latest top secret code as best he could. After only a minute, however, he became aware that Lawrence was still watching him.

“Something I can help you with?” he asked, fighting desperately against the heat rising to his cheeks.

“This restaurant…” Lawrence tapped his stylus against the edge of his desk. “Do you think it’ll have a television?”

Rhys scowled without looking away from the line of code he’d extracted. “I doubt it. It’s not a sports bar. Why?” Rhys asked, risking a glance. “Is there something I should be concerned about?”

But Lawrence’s expression, when Rhys finally looked, didn’t reveal a single thing. He closed the map and pushed back his chair. “No. I’ll get a sweep from Athena. Are you eating in the office today?”

“No,” Rhys said quickly. “I’ve got a meeting with Vaughn in his office. I won’t need anything today.”

Lawrence didn’t even seem surprised. Nothing much really showed on his face at all. The number of times Rhys had eaten lunch in his office over the last month could’ve been counted on one hand.

Lawrence shouldered on his suit jacket. “Right. I’ll be back to escort you shortly.”

* * *

The restaurant passed clearance, of course. Rhys met Sonia at the entrance, just in front of the host’s podium, where she was in deep conversation. She looked up with a tight smile. “Rhys, hi.” She leaned forward and Rhys had no idea what he was expected to do. After an awkward, floundering moment, they settled on a one-armed hug with a brushing kiss to her cheek.

“Good to see you. You look amazing.” He tried to sound natural, because she really did look good, but he felt as if he were reciting his lines. Sonia gave another quick smile, like a flash of lightning through storm clouds. “Is everything okay?” he asked.

“There’s been a bit of a mix-up with our reservation,” she said, stress lines pinched tight around her eyes.

“Oh. That doesn’t sound good,” Rhys said. Sonia hummed a tense note in response. He wondered if this was something she’d ever had to deal with before. “You seem offended,” he offered.

“Not offended. Just this sort of thing wouldn’t fly at one of my restaurants,” she said without a stitch of shame. He patted her once on the arm, uncertain if it was an appropriate show of affection.

“I’m very, very sorry for this,” the hostess said, probably not for the first time. “We can seat you at the bar until your table is ready.”

“At least we’ll probably get free appetizers out of this,” Rhys said in an undertone. He didn’t exactly need free anything, of course, but he knew that other people appreciated it more than he did.

The interior was golden and lovely, soft balsa wood floors and simple, tasteful artwork on the walls. They took their seats at the polished bar, Rhys helping Sonia onto her stool, and placed their drink orders. The bartender, perhaps aware of the situation, didn’t dawdle. Not two minutes after their order was placed did they each have their yuzu cocktails placed in front of them. Two minutes after that, a complimentary plate of corn and potato croquettes with a mayo dipping sauce appeared.

Half-way through her drink and with a croquette in her stomach, Sonia seemed to relax at last. Her smiles became more genuine, and Rhys began to believe this evening might be salvageable after all.

“I guess it’s a nice place,” she allowed, a little grudgingly. “Izakaya-style is all the rage these days. It’s interesting to see a place aim for the same kind of food but with a more refined air. Music played at a reasonable volume. Fewer people taking sake bombs at their table.” She looked over her shoulder, to the large LCD pinned above the bar, and frowned. “Shame about that thing, though. Can’t imagine why a Japanese place would want a TV. It’s kind of tacky.”

“I guess,” Rhys said while he tried to think of ways to contribute. “I like the croquettes here.” He struggled to think of something better to offer, maybe something about the last ramen place he’d visited—only to remember, with a twanging note of pain in his chest, the person he’d gone to it with.

And then, as if he were summoned, Rhys saw Tim’s face on the television.

Except it was Jack, of course. Jack with his white mask, dressed in an eye-searing yellow sweater and what looked like a pair of dad jeans. His hair looked softer than usual, although it was still swept up in an absurd cowlick over his brow. He was seated on a beige armchair, hands folded over his crossed knees, looking like someone who’d been trained how to appear at ease in front of the camera. The lighting was soft, and it made him look far more… human than Rhys was used to seeing him. The camera cut away as Rhys watched, and a woman he vaguely recognized as one of those professional interviewer types appeared in the chair opposite Jack.

Sonia turned and followed Rhys’ gaze. “Huh,” she said.

“Is this a talk show?” Rhys asked. It didn’t feel like one. There didn’t appear to be an audience, and it was far too late in the evening.

“That’s Aelya Khan,” Sonia said. “She’s one of those Barbara Walter types,” she explained when Rhys gave her a blank look. “Private, heart-wrenching interviews. That sort of thing.”

“Why the hell would Jack want to talk to someone like her?” Rhys wondered aloud.

“Yeah, it’s a little strange,” Sonia admitted. “He doesn’t really put forward a touchy-feely image, does he?”

Rhys didn’t reply. He stared at the screen. Jack wasn’t smiling, and neither was the woman. The close captioning was several seconds behind, and a little jumbled, but Rhys tried to read along.

[…know it couldnthave been easy coming forward after years of silence. To suffer such abuse from the only person in the world you could rely on must ofhave been awful…]

“Huh,” Sonia said again.

Underneath the black bars of captioning, Rhys could just make out the words ‘Jack Lawrence comes forward about abusive childhood.’

* * *

Aelya was an icon of sympathy, the soft-eyed, moue-mouthed listener who could shoulder the whole world’s ills for at least an hour. She’d offered variations of the same sentiment— _that must have been so hard for you_ —for the last twenty minutes. Jack assured her, every time, that it was. Had been. Just as they’d done in rehearsal.

“And your brother,” she said, right on time. “Was it a little easier, knowing you didn’t have to face the abuse alone?”

Jack paused, and it looked very natural. Like the question gave him reason to think. “In some ways, it was. I couldn’t have gotten through any of it without Tim. I know that now. But… Part of me wishes he wasn’t there, just so he didn’t have to go through it.” Another pause. “We’re different people. It was hard on him. That’s all I’ll say about it.”

* * *

‘ _You have reached the voice mail of—‘_ “Timothy. Lawrence.” ‘ _Please leave a message at the tone. Once you are finished, you can hang up…’_

Rhys waited for the recording to finish, tapping his fingers against the dashboard as his car merged smoothly into oncoming traffic.

“Tim, it’s me. Just… call me when you get this, okay? Or text. I just…” Two ‘justs’ in as many sentences. Those weak, filler words shouldn’t have any place in Rhys’ speech, but he was too frazzled. He sighed. “Just let me know you’re okay.” And that was three.

Rhys hung up. He drummed his fingers against the wheel and peered out of the tinted windshield. Traffic was thick in this part of the city, especially at this time of night. Cars were nearly bumper-to-bumper, and Rhys knew that he would have a crawl ahead of him until he could get his car on the elevated toll roads.

Once he was safely on the toll roads, and his car finally began to pick up speed, Rhys tried Tim’s phone again. And again, just as before, his call went directly to voice mail. He breathed out and tried to make himself _think_.

Where was Tim? At home, hopefully. He could’ve gone to Jack’s super mansion, although Rhys had to imagine there’d be paparazzi waiting for him. Maybe he’d gone back to the office? Or, god, maybe he was at Marco’s. Rhys almost hoped that was the case. He didn’t like to think of Tim being alone.

Rhys tried calling him again, but the results hadn’t changed. He hadn’t really expected them to, but every time he heard the monotone voicemail message, his heart sank another inch.

Tim had been distant these last few weeks. Rhys had chalked it up to his plan working as intended, but maybe there’d been something else behind it.

The silence had become grating. Rhys turned on the radio, which already tuned to the news channel. He heard the sound of Tim’s—of _Jack’s_ voice. His jaw clicked as Aelya and Jack talked, but he didn’t change the channel.

“… _Took a while for me to even call it what it was. ‘Abuse’ is such a loaded term, and I didn’t like it_.” Jack’s voice drifted from the speakers. _“Especially because she was an old lady, and I had a lotta notions about what it meant to be strong, and a man. Sometimes I think I hated her more for how weak she made me feel—emasculated—than for the actual hits she threw.”_

“God damn you, Jack,” Rhys muttered as the road zipped past. “What the hell are you thinking?”

He tried calling again, and hung up before the female voice could finish her first word.

Where could Tim be? That was all Rhys needed to know. If he could just find out if Tim was somewhere safe, somewhere with someone who could look after him—even if that someone was Marco—then Rhys could relax and just go home. Leave it and talk to Tim tomorrow.

And they would talk, Rhys decided, sitting back. To hell with what he’d thought before. It was a stupid plan, anyway. Tim would never just be an employee to Rhys.

After what felt like the fiftieth failed call, Rhys’ resolve snapped and he did something that was, if not illegal, then incredibly immoral. He remotely activated the GPS locator in Tim’s phone.

* * *

Every phone on the planet has a GPS now, but that information wasn’t meant to be available to everyone. But there were certain apps one could install that would grant one access to that information. Or perhaps that app may have come pre-loaded in a company cell phone.

Rhys had installed it for purely innocent reasons, initially. He often sent Tim out on little errands throughout the day, and Rhys liked keeping an eye on his bodyguard’s location. Especially in the beginning, when trust was thin on the ground for both of them, and Rhys had wanted to be sure that Timothy Lawrence wasn’t running off to Hyperion during his breaks to sell company secrets.

He never did. After a few months, Rhys found himself using it only when Tim was out picking up their lunch, and only because Rhys liked to know when the food would arrive.

He’d never activated it outside of office hours before. Rhys may have had certain issues with boundaries but even he knew this was a bad one to cross. It didn’t stop him from crossing it, ultimately, but he did feel guilty about it. Tim’s phone was in his apartment.

Did Tim’s grandmother ever felt guilty for the things she’d done to him? What sort of boundaries could a child in an abusive home expect? Jack’s voice was like a needle vibrating in Rhys’ ear. He snapped out a command and his radio changed stations, replacing Aelya’s sympathetic humming with brassy jazz.

Fine. Rhys could tolerate a horn section and fifteen minute songs. His car flicked on its turn signal and began to merge at last towards the Mount Pleasant street exit.

Rhys’ car pulled into the guest parking of Tim’s run-down little apartment building. He punched in Tim’s apartment code to the stubbornly unresponsive touch screen, only to have the same voice mail message play over the tinny speakers. Of course Tim had set his apartment buzzer to his cell phone, Rhys thought as he ground his teeth. It only made sense.

What he did next was barely a step above his original invasion of privacy, but Rhys had come too far to turn around and the door’s security was laughably weak against a cyborg with half a computer for a brain. Once inside, Rhys called for the building’s one and only elevator and, while it clanked its way down the shaft, he rehearsed what he might say when he came face-to-face with Tim.

He would play it cool, he decided. He would be supportive, and apologetic, although the thought of showing his soft parts made him wince. It was a necessary evil. He’d let things go too far, yet again.

The elevator arrived at last, smelling of stale cigarettes and take-out food. Rhys wrinkled his nose and stepped inside. The only way forward with Tim was an apology, although maybe he didn’t have to say that in so many words. That he’d come out all this way was proof enough that he was sorry, surely…

The hallway to Tim’s apartment was just as unpleasant as Rhys remembered. Even with what was sure to be an ugly conversation ahead of him, even with the word ‘abuse’ still clanging between his ears, and the nerves that made his hand shake and his heart pound, Rhys was surprised to find that part of him was looking forward to this. Part of him was _happy,_ even.

Rhys would knock on the door and it would be Tim on the other side. And they would talk again.

Rhys raised his hand, prepared to knock, and hesitated. Tim would be on the other side… but that didn’t mean he would want to listen to Rhys. That didn’t mean he would want to see Rhys, especially right now. Rhys’ throat tightened, a grip of uncertainty like the pull of a leash.

Nothing would happen if he did nothing, he told himself firmly. He was Rhys Griffiths-Whyte. He could be accused of many, many failings, but he was never one to turn away from a deal just because the negotiations might be difficult. He swallowed and knocked.

And waited.

There was nothing on the other side of the door. No sound of movement, no shift of fabric, or hiss of socks on linoleum flooring. No murmur of televised voices, or hushed conversation. In fact, there was no sound at all.

Rhys knocked again, more loudly. In the hall, he could hear the noises of the other lives taking place behind the cheap wooden doors. Children’s voices, music playing too loud, the sound of a running tap, the sizzle of cooking oil. Feeling a little sketchy, and very aware of how this would look if someone were to come out and find him there, Rhys pressed his ear against Tim’s door.

Nothing. There was nothing.

Rhys knocked again, but it was like the phone calls. The silence on the other side didn’t feel like the complicated, thick silence of someone trying not to make any sound to avoid an unwelcome visitor. It felt like the silence that was nothing more than the absence of noise. Because there was no one around to make any.

Tim wasn’t home.

Rhys chewed the inside of his cheek and tried to think of the logical next steps in the face of growing disappointment. Tim had friends, didn’t he? He didn’t often mention any names, but Rhys knew for a fact he was at least on friendly terms with the head of Atlas security. Rhys pulled out his phone.

Athena, it seemed, did not keep her company phone on her person at all times the way Tim did. Usually did. Rhys counted the rings as he waited. Rhys could be patient. So could Athena, it seemed.

Finally, after more than 20 rings, the line clicked and Athena said, in her brisk, business-like voice, “Is everything alright, sir?”

“Fine,” Rhys said without thinking. “It’s nothing to panic over.” It wasn’t, Rhys reminded himself. “I was looking for Tim. Have you seen him tonight?”

Silence from Athena. Rhys could hear, very faintly, the accented voice of her wife asking if anything was wrong.

“I haven’t seen him since I left the office,” Athena said carefully. “Why are you asking?” Something in her tone made sweat prickle under his collar.

Rhys was her boss, but something about Athena had always intimidated him in a way that even Tim never did. A steel in her spine and her voice that made him forget that he had, technically, some authority over her.

“I’m looking for him,” Rhys said. Athena wielded her silence like a weapon and Rhys felt bludgeoned. “Haven’t you turned on the TV tonight?”

“I have.” Her voice didn’t change, but there was a crack of frost in her words. “Are you worried about him?”

“Of course I am,” Rhys said as he began to pace. “I had no idea about— about any of it. I didn’t know Jack was going to do this. I don’t know where Tim is. He never mentioned any of it to me. Aren’t _you_ worried?” Had Tim ever said anything to Athena about it? Had they kept it from Rhys?

Every conversation with Athena went slow like this. She always weighed her replies before she made them. Rhys had never hated it more.

“Tim is a very private man,” Athena said at last, answering the question Rhys didn’t ask out loud. “Even in the time I’ve known him, he hasn’t had an easy life. He’s handled it well this far.” Was Rhys losing his mind, or did he actually detect just a hint of doubt?

“I want to be _certain_ he’s still handling it well now,” Rhys said. “Do you know where he could be?”

Athena sighed. “I don’t. As I said, he’s a private man. If he’s not at home, he could be with his niece.”

Maybe. But that would mean Tim was at Jack’s house, and with the interview wrapped up, his home would be under siege from the paparazzi.

“Maybe he’s with Marco,” Rhys suggested.

Another pause, and this one felt more weighed than usual. Rhys could just faintly hear Janey’s voice asking, _‘He doesn’t know?’_

“He won’t be with Marco,” Athena said. “Sir, if there’s nothing else, then I’d like to get on with my evening. I suggest you do the same. Aren’t you on a date right now?”

Only years of training kept Rhys from flinching. “Right,” he said. “Call me if you hear anything.”

Another sigh, quieter than the first. “I will. And sir, a quick request? If you do find Tim, could you please let me know?”

“I will,” Rhys said.

“By text, if you don’t mind.” Athena always made politeness sound like a struggle. She hung up.

Rhys resumed pacing and tried to think of next steps. He didn’t know Marco’s number—but maybe that didn’t matter. Why would Athena sound so certain when she told him that Tim wouldn’t be with his boyfriend?

An obvious answer loomed large in Rhys’ mind, but it was too awful to consider. For the first time ever, Rhys would have preferred to have Marco in Tim’s life.

Rhys drummed his fingers against his hip. There was still someone he could call, and he could not think of a good reason not to do it. He could think of several _bad_ reasons, however.

Gritting his teeth, Rhys punched in a number he’d dug from the security net years ago, out of curiosity.

Annoyingly, but perhaps not surprisingly, it did not even ring.

‘ _Hey if you got this number and you don’t know who I am, I’d be very surprised and maybe a little impressed. Anywho, feel free to leave a message that I will definitely ignore. Toodles!’_

God. Even over a recorded message, he was the world’s biggest tool. Rhys listened to the hiss of Jack’s answering service, considering. He had several things he would very much like to say to Jack, but he’d rather do it in person. He hung up without saying a word.

Rhys stared at his screen, struggling to come up with the next part of his plan, only to draw a blank.

He’d done his due diligence, hadn’t he? Short of building a time machine, implanting Tim with a tracking chip, and returning to the present, there wasn’t really much he could do now. Tim was gone. He’d left his phone turned off, and at home. Wherever he was, he didn’t want to be found. Rhys should go home.

Rhys sighed. He sat down on the floor, very carefully didn’t think about how often the hall was cleaned and how nice his suit trousers were, and settled in to wait.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for alcohol abuse and brief mention of methods to commit suicide in this chapter.
> 
> I was briefly tempted to hold this chapter back for a week, tbh. But even I'm not that cruel.

Rhys didn’t realise he’d begun to doze until he was jerked awake by his phone’s buzzing. In a snap he was more awake than he’d been in years, and maybe that was why he did something he never, ever did. He answered his phone without checking the ID.

“Hello? Tim?” Only to realise a moment later how stupid an idea that was.

“Uh… Hey.” It was not Tim. It was a hesitant-sounding man whose voice Rhys didn’t recognize. Rhys could hear the faint sound of classic rock, the clatter of billiards, and the clink of glasses. A bar, then, and not a very nice one. “Sorry to, uh, bother you? I got your card from this guy’s wallet. Did you say you were looking for, um, a ‘Tim’?”

Rhys sucked in a breath and levered himself to his feet. “Is he there? Is he okay? Where are you?”

“He’s— He’s alright,” the man said, almost reluctant, as Rhys punched the elevator call button. “I’ve already cut him off. But…”

There were only six floors in this building, but it still somehow took the elevator five years to get anywhere. Rhys bit off a curse and stalked towards the stairs.

“He needs someone to take him home,” the man finished.

“Tell me where you are,” Rhys said as he rushed carelessly down the stairs.

The bartender did and Rhys sent it wirelessly to his car’s system. “Keep an eye on him. I’ll be there soon,” Rhys said.

“Okay. Hey, by the way—are you really—?”

Rhys hung up. His car’s headlamps blazed to life as Rhys burst from the apartment’s front doors, flooding the little parking lot. The electric engine didn’t roar to life because that wasn’t how they worked, but Rhys’ car was awake and waiting for him, humming with barely leashed efficiency, as if it could read his anxiety. It remained idle until Rhys was strapped in safely the wheel, but it was in motion as soon as the buckle snapped close. The GPS estimated an arrival of 10 minutes.

Too long, Rhys thought, tapping his fingers against the wheel. Far too long. The digital display reminded him of the hour; just past 1am, less than an hour from last call. Rhys thought of Tim in that bar, alone and without his phone, and a platinum card in his hand. When had he given his wallet to the bartender? And why? What kind of mindset had he been in? And that was only assuming he’d been the one to give it. Maybe the bartender had taken it from him. Maybe Tim wasn’t in any shape to stop him.

Easy, Rhys reminded himself. The bartender had said Tim was fine. He just… needed someone to take him home.

Nine minutes and thirty-two seconds later, the car pulled up in front of a place called Cutty’s. The same four posters were plastered to the windows in a long ribbon, advertising beer, a karaoke night, a cheap tequila, and a different advertisement for the same beer. It was difficult to see much through the windows. Grime had rendered the glass nearly opaque.

A few smokers stood in what was probably meant to be the patio. They eyed Rhys, his suit, and his car. Rhys paid them little mind. It occurred to him, perhaps far too late, that this could be a trick or a trap. That maybe this was the sort of location he should have brought some security to.

Good thing my bodyguard’s inside, he thought and pushed his way through the entrance.

The interior was dark, loud, and warm. The only sources of light were the neon LCDs strung in ribbons of gleaming blue from the ceiling, and the jukebox’s glowing screen. People were crowded inside booths, around small tables. Rhys scanned them, looking for a familiar feature in the gloom. He spotted the hawkish nose and the broad shoulders first, seated in a corner booth, with two other people Rhys didn’t recognize. The bartender looked up when Rhys entered. His eyes widened.

“Holy shit,“ he said as Rhys breezed past.

Tim didn’t have the cartoonish array of empty beer bottles in front of him Rhys had expected to see. The only things on the table were two drinks making water circles on the wood, a nearly empty bowl of pretzels, and Tim’s folded hands. He was slumped over. Rhys couldn’t see his expression from the angle of his approach, but he wanted to. More than anything, in that very moment, he wanted to see Tim’s face. He felt as if they’d been apart for months, as if they hadn’t just seen each other hours ago. Yesterday, Rhys supposed.

Tim was seated closest to the wall. The person beside him—a large, blond man and Rhys didn’t register anything beyond that—pressed close against him. He was the first to look up when Rhys approached.

“Is it the shift change already?” he asked. “You’re here to take our order?”

Rhys ignored him. He leaned over, pressed the tips of his cybernetic fingers onto the table, inches from Tim’s own.

“Tim,” he said.

Tim looked up. He squinted at Rhys for a moment, and then the clouds cleared from his expression. His eyes widened.

“Well, hey!” Tim smiled. He looked flushed. “Look who it is. It’s the man himself. You realise you’re, like, sextupling the value of this place by being here, boss? Sorry.” He laughed. “ _Sir_. Did I get it right? I keep forgetting.”

There was something wrong with his voice, something like a brittle edge between his words. A few people had started craning their heads in their direction. Tim’s voice carried.

“Come on, Tim,” Rhys said. “It’s time to go.” He touched the back of Tim’s hand. Tim pulled away.

“Hey.” The blond wedged himself between Rhys and Tim, put his hand on Rhys’ chest. Not quite shoving him away, but not letting him get any closer. “This guy’s okay. Alright?”

Rhys spared him a brief glance, enough to register that the blond was large because of his muscles, and that he was annoyingly good looking. “Not alright,” Rhys snapped. “He’s had enough.”

The woman seated across from them—blue haired, with blue tattoos to match—shifted forward slightly. “He’s not drinking,” she said calmly.

“All the more reason he should go home,” Rhys said. He hadn’t prepared himself for a fight.

“He’ll go when he’s ready,” the blond said. He was still smiling, to Rhys’ increasing frustration. “I didn’t catch your name?”

“You mean you don’t recognize him?” Tim lunged for the bowl of pretzels. The blue-haired woman discreetly edged her drink out of his reach. “He’s world famous. The world famous cyborg. Rich and…” Tim waved his hand vaguely. “You know. Very powerful guy.”

“Tim,” Rhys tried again, angling to be seen around blondie. “Come on. Let’s get your things.”

“You’re getting it wrong,” Tim said. He tossed a pretzel into his mouth. “You’ve been so good lately and now you’re fucking it up. What if I get the wrong idea? You’ll have to retrain me.”

Rhys became aware, far too late, that the tension simmering between them was starting to boil, and that the edge he’d heard in Tim’s voice wasn’t as brittle as he thought.

“He’s okay,” Blondie said again, his hand firm in Rhys’ chest. “He’s—“

“I’m not talking to you,” Rhys snarled, temper fraying. Blondie’s smile dropped away at last and Rhys didn’t miss it. He felt gratified until Blondie stood up.

“I think it’s time you go,” he suggested, stepping close.

Rhys felt a momentary panic—Blondie had looked smaller sitting down—but he buried it before it could make him do something smart. Like step back. Rhys stared down at the stranger with a sneer, letting every inch of height and his obviously elevated social status do the talking for him. Too bad Blondie didn’t seem to notice. He squared up.

“I don’t know who you are,” Blondie said, breath reeking of shitty beer. “But you need to leave Tim alone.”

Never, Rhys thought.

He glared down at the man, who only lifted his chin in response, just as stubborn. Rhys could just spot his blue haired friend edging towards the lip of her seat, one foot already on the ground. He became aware that he was likely only a few seconds and some ugly words away from getting into a bar fight.

“I didn’t want trouble tonight,” Blondie said, as if he could read Rhys’ thought. “But, pal, if you don’t _back off_ in the next ten seconds, I’ll lay you out. I’m not kidding.”

“I didn’t come for any trouble, either,” Rhys said. “But I’m not leaving without Tim.”

Blondie’s nostrils flared. “That’s too bad.” He took one step back, raised his hand like a threat he hoped Rhys might run from. Rhys swallowed and didn’t move.

A hand clamped around Blondie’s raised wrist, locking him in place.

“Never mind, Ax,” Tim said, forcing him none-too-gently aside.

“You sure?” The appropriately-named Ax looked worried. “I don’t mind. Terry’s a pal, he won’t throw us out.”

“I’ll have this place shut down,” Rhys said. “I’ll buy it and fire everyone who works here.”

“He would,” Tim said as Ax opened his mouth. “And then he’d sue you. Forget it, alright? I’m fine.”

Ax looked ready to argue, but blue-hair cut in. “Okay, Tim. If you’re sure,” she said.

Tim nodded while Ax deflated. “I’m sure. Thanks, guys.”

He took a step towards Rhys, stumbling a little. Rhys caught him, gripped his arm with both hands. For the first time since he walked in, Tim finally looked at Rhys.

It didn’t matter how often Rhys found himself at the receiving end of that look. For less than a second, it always made his breath catch. He’d missed this, too.

And then it was gone. Tim turned away, shook Rhys’ hands off.

“No problem, man,” Ax said gruffly, still eyeing Rhys. He had his arms folded, all the better to show off his bulging biceps.

Rhys barely noticed the alpha male display. He had eyes for Tim and not for much else.

“Come back any time,” the blue haired woman said as they weaved their way out. Tim raised his hand without looking back.

Before he stepped out, Rhys did something that went beyond immoral, and was definitely illegal. The sort of thing that proved that he was the kind of cyborg all those reactionary op-eds liked to shriek about.

He remotely tapped into the bar’s wifi and accessed every single phone and smart device in the place, infected them with a little virus, and wiped their recorded data. After everything he’d gone through, Tim deserved the dignity of a quiet exit.

“What a nice place,” Rhys grumbled as his car hummed itself to life, startling the smokers.

Tim said nothing. He made his way with uneven steps to the idling vehicle. It was strange to see him like this. Rhys had gotten so used to seeing Tim controlled, confident with his movements. Even when he was relaxed, he always gave the impression that his body was doing exactly what he wanted it to. Nothing more, nothing less.

Now he seemed uncoordinated, limbs too loose to be useful for much. He nearly collapsed against the side of Rhys’ car, hand fumbling for the handle without even looking.

He wasn’t looking at anything, really.

Rhys slid behind the wheel as Tim collapsed in the back seat. He ignored the seatbelt warnings and laid down. Rhys quietly disabled the vehicle’s safety locks. It pulled, perhaps a little reluctantly, away from the curb and started to make its way to the toll roads.

Tim didn’t talk. Rhys tried to convince himself that he was alright with silence—or, at least, alright with a smooth saxophone solo playing over the radio and no talking from his passenger—but it wasn’t easy. His thoughts, normally so organized, even if it was often very crowded, felt messy. He had too much to say, and not enough words to express himself with. Or too many words, maybe. He rubbed his forehead.

Finally, when he could take it no longer, he spoke. “Nice friends you had there.” And then he winced. He really hadn’t meant to sound confrontational, but that blond would-be barfighter stuck in his head.

“They’re alright,” Tim said.

“One of them wanted to hit me,” Rhys said.

Tim had his arm thrown over his eyes. In the light of passing cars, all Rhys could see was his parted lips.

“Lots of people want to hit you,” Tim said. “S’why I’ve got this job.”

“I wasn’t even doing anything,” Rhys grumbled. “I was trying to take a drunk friend home and he wanted to throw a punch over it.”

Tim’s fingers twitched. “Oh, we’re friends now, are we?” His voice sounded loose, like a thread unspooling.

Rhys flexed his human hand. “We are,” he said. He tried to pour his usual CEO-bred confidence into the words, but the thudding of his heart betrayed him.

Tim didn’t immediately reply and Rhys forced himself to keep his cool. He kept his eyes on the rearview, trying to read meaning into the small amount of Tim’s face he could see.

At last, Tim said, “You should’ve backed down. Don’t you know anything? A guy like that squares up to a beanpole like you… You should’ve taken a step back.”

“Why?” Rhys asked. “He wasn’t going to hit me.”

“The hell he wasn’t,” Tim said.

“He wasn’t,” Rhys insisted. “You wouldn’t let him.”

Tim didn’t speak for a while. Rhys stretched his arms, pushing against the wheel, tried to work out the thrumming tension building inside of him. He wanted to crawl into the backseat, pull Tim’s arm away from his face. He just wanted to see.

Tim sighed. “You’re a real piece of work. You know that?”

Rhys didn’t know how to respond. His mind still teemed with things he wanted to say, sentiments he very much wanted to express, apologies he needed to make, but it all withered away as soon as he laid eyes on what he could see of Tim’s face.

Soon, he promised himself. He would do as he planned. He _would_. He wouldn’t let Tim slip away tonight.

They drove in silence, the same as they had been doing for weeks. The last time, Rhys hoped.

* * *

The rest he’d taken in the car hadn’t done much to improve Tim’s equilibrium. He stumbled to the elevator, veering towards the stability of the closest wall, where he leaned his whole body and let his eyes slip shut. He ignored Rhys, not a single twitch of awareness as Rhys came up to wait beside him.

Rhys had a throat full of brambles, thorns that caught every word before they could escape. He walked behind Tim as they made their way down the hall, towards his apartment.

A quiet voice meowed on the other side of the door as Tim fumbled with his keys, leaning one arm against the wood. When the door opened, he nearly tripped over the jamb and his own feet, and would’ve possibly crushed his waiting cats if Rhys hadn’t caught his arm.

Tim couldn’t ignore Rhys any longer, although he seemed like he wanted to try. He gave Rhys’ ear a sullen look before he shook himself free.

Thing One and Thing Two weaved their way along the floor before Tim’s path, looking up and yelling plaintively about the state of their food bowls, their late dinners. Tim mumbled something to them, his voice as clumsy as the rest of him, and dodged their attempts to get under foot.

“If you’re gonna stick around,” Tim said as he turned unsteadily towards the washroom. “Make yourself useful and feed them, will you?”

Rhys flushed, at once annoyed at being bossed around, and ashamed at his own continued silence. The door clicked shut behind Tim and Rhys was left alone with a pair of cats with matching mistrustful looks on their faces. A moment later, he heard the hush and gurgle of pouring water and something clattering.

Rhys looked down at Tim’s cats, who stared back from a safe distance on the other side of the room. He fed them, although he didn’t know the appropriate amount to give them. He erred on the side of too much, reasoning that a happy, fat cat was better than the alternative.

Rhys dawdled for a moment, feeling out of place among Tim’s cozy, second-hand furniture, and his half-eaten plants. Rhys had only ever been there after dark, but he could imagine what it might look like during the day, with the sunlight streaming in through the windows. He could imagine Tim, seated at the corner of his couch, curled up under the green blanket crumpled there now. Tim with a book in his hands, one he selected from the tall, overstuffed shelf leaning against the far wall, and a steaming mug of cinnamon tea or cider, or something equally pleasing on the side table. The cats, curled up on the couch as well, somewhere close, so that Tim might easily reach out and scratch the fur behind their ears, or under their chins. The tall chestnut trees visible from his windows, perennial early shedders and nearly bare already, shaking what was left of their yellowing leaves to the ground.

Peaceful, and alone.

Rhys felt an ache, almost like an illness inside of him. Just what the hell did he think he was doing here? What did he want for tomorrow, and the day after, and the one after that? What did he want from Tim? It’d all seemed so clear an hour ago, when he had the benefit of immediacy, driven by urgency and only concerned with the immediate nexts. Now Tim was home, he was safe, and Rhys didn’t need to be there at all.

Rhys found a glass in the cupboard and filled it with water. He knocked on the door.

“Tim? Are you alright?” Rhys heard a sigh and a quiet sniff. “Can I come in?”

The door opened. Tim stood before him, his face splotched red, looking freshly scrubbed. His expression looked as if it’d been scrubbed clean as well.

Tim wasn’t looking at Rhys but at the wall behind his head. “Still here?”

Rhys nodded, even though it was too obvious a question to need a reply. A small bead of water clung to Tim’s brow, threatening over his long lashes. Rhys stared at it, desperate with the need to brush it aside.

Tim closed his eyes. He pushed away from the door, feet still unsteady, and nearly fell back over the edge of his tub. Rhys reached for him, caught the hem of his t-shirt, but Tim had steadied himself before he could snap his spine over the false porcelain.

“You’re a real mother hen today, aren’t you.” Tim sat down on the edge of his tub, much to Rhys’ rising anxiety. Even seated, Tim didn’t look stable.

Rhys’ mind filled with new, less peaceful images of Tim falling backwards and cracking his head against the tile. Knocking over a shampoo bottle and drowning in the suds. Rhys held out the glass of water.

“I’m touched.” Tim didn’t move to accept it. He slipped back into the tub, letting his legs hook over the lip at the knee. “Is this the kind of mama bird act I’ve got to look forward to from now on? Or is this a one-time thing?” Almost like a child. He leaned back until his head rested against the wall, where he regarded Rhys with sleepy-eyed amusement.

Once again, Rhys became aware that there was something else going on behind Tim’s eyes, his words. Something sharp and barely concealed. Uncertain, and feeling more than a little awkward, Rhys placed the glass within Tim’s reach and sat down on the toilet seat.

Tim raised an eyebrow. The freshly clean look had faded from his face, although the warm flush remained. “Oh, make yourself at home.”

“Thanks,” Rhys said, feeling stupid.

“So.” Tim folded his hands over his stomach. “Are you going to answer my questions, or should we just stare at each other all night? Because fair warning, I fully intend to continue drinking and I may or may not vomit in around an hour or so.”

“I think you’ve had enough to drink,” Rhys said, frowning.

Tim’s eyes narrowed, even as his smile widened. “Really? That’s funny. I think you’re sitting in my fucking home and I’ll drink as much as I please,” he said pleasantly. Rhys glanced to the open door, where he could see the kitchen’s light spilling into the hall. “Hey.” Tim nudged him with his bare foot. “Answer my question.”

“Um.” Rhys rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know. If this is a one time thing or not. I haven’t… thought that far ahead.”

Tim considered him, that strange smile still in place. Rhys knew it wasn’t a good sign, but he was too relieved to have Tim looking at him at all to feel nervous.

“That’s not like you,” Tim said. “You’re very _considerate_. I’ve never known you to act without figuring out your next ten moves.”

“I guess that’s true,” Rhys admitted. “Today was… different.”

Tim sniffed. “I’m sure.” Rhys swallowed and said nothing. Tim let his head fall back with a quiet knock. “Christ, Rhys. Why are you still here? No, actually—I got a better one. Why did you come out tonight at all?”

“I tried calling,” Rhys said weakly. He did not think about the implications of Tim using his first name again.

“You and half the city, I imagine. I turned my phone off,” Tim said, rubbing at the hollows of his eyes.

“What about Marco?” Rhys asked, desperate to change the course of their conversation. “What if he calls?”

Tim’s smile returned, but looked no better. “That’s un-fucking-likely.”

Rhys frowned. “Why?” 

Tim ignored him. “Stop dodging my question. Why are you here?”

Rhys knew exactly why, although he could not find the right words. The way he knew things in a dream, things that he would struggle to describe upon waking. It felt too big to fit inside of him.

Or maybe he was just a coward. Rhys looked at his knees. “I was worried,” he said.

Tim didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t move his hands. For a moment, he held himself very still. “I thought there wasn’t going to be a television at the restaurant tonight,” he said.

“We got seated in the bar. There was one there,” Rhys said.

Tim’s chin trembled. “Right. Of course. Of course there fucking was. Is that it, then? You came out to make sure I didn’t open my veins over the sidewalk? Fling myself off the bridge? Drown myself in the harbour?”

“I didn’t—“ Rhys tried as Tim struggled into motion. He pushed himself up from the tub, an awkward proposition even if he had complete control over his faculties. His foot kicked the glass of water, spilling it over the linoleum. Rhys sprung to his feet, reached out to help, but Tim knocked his hands away.

“I don’t need it,” he snarled, teeth bared. “I don’t need _this_. You made it clear, Rhys, that I don’t— I shouldn’t— I don’t need your fucking pity. I’m not a goddamn child.” He rocked on his heels, moving as if he’d already missed a step. He pushed past Rhys and stormed into the hall.

“I didn’t think you were,” Rhys said, keeping pace with ease. “I only wanted—“

“Oh, please, tell me, Rhys.” Tim yanked the cupboard door above the sink open. “Tell me what you want. I love hearing about what you want.” He gripped a bottle of bourbon by its neck and slammed it down onto the counter. “You know, you’re really fucking this whole thing up,” he went on loudly as he went to look for a glass. “I’m going to get all kinds of ideas above my station after tonight. God knows you made it clear you don’t want _that_.”

Rhys grabbed the bottle and pulled it from Tim’s reach before he could react. Tim snarled again like a dog left to go hungry, no words behind the sound, and rounded on Rhys, who held the bottle behind his back.

“I want you to—“ Rhys stumbled back as Tim advanced, kicking over one of the bowls of cat food, scattering kibble before him. “I want you to stop drinking.”

“Gimme that—!” Tim lunged forward, but his movements were too clumsy, too easily dodged that even Rhys could side-step him.

“It’s my home!” Tim followed him into the living room, where Rhys nearly knocked into his coffee table. “I’m not kidding, Rhys. Give me the bottle!”

“No.” Rhys fought to keep his voice steady and quiet, even as Tim pursued him. “You’ve had enough. You know you’ve had enough. You don’t need it.”

Rhys’ back hit the bookshelf. “Don’t tell me what I need!” Tim grabbed the shelves above their heads with both hands, bracketing Rhys in. He pushed his flushed face close to Rhys’, showed his teeth. “You think you’re so goddamn smart. You think you know everything about me.”

Rhys almost laughed, which was a mistake. “Obviously I don’t.”

Tim’s nostrils flared. Something went hot behind his eyes. The shelves creaked where he gripped them.

Rhys had never seen Tim like this. His face red, pupils shrunk down to pinpricks, jaw tight and teeth bared. Actually _angry_ in a way Rhys hadn’t even thought possible.

He should’ve found it frightening. A part of him could admire the sort of things it did to Tim, the wildness it gave him. Part of him was even impressed that it took an entire night’s worth of drinking and all of his most private secrets bared to an international audience for the sake of Jack’s image to get him here.

“Give me,” Tim said, “the bottle.”

“No,” Rhys said. He felt a great deal of emotions, far more than he was used to feeling. But he wasn’t frightened.

“Rhys!” His voice like the snap of a whip. “This isn’t a game. Give me the goddamn bottle.”

“ _No_ ,” Rhys said, his grip tightening on the glass neck.

Tim huffed, bathing Rhys’ face in a warm blast of booze-soaked air. “You wanna know about my night, Rhys? My month? You wanna know about Marco?” He leaned in. Rhys swallowed but didn’t shrink away. “He got smart on me. Saw the kind of guy I was. Of course he fucking left me. What did you think would happen to us?”

Rhys didn’t know the right answer to that question. He suspected there wasn’t one. “That’s… I didn’t know,” he said.

Tim’s expression twisted into an ugly parody of amusement. “Of course you didn’t. We don’t talk, do we? That’s your choice and that’s fine. That’s fine. I’ve had a shitty fucking few weeks. Years. Whatever. But I’ve kept it together, haven’t I, Rhys? Nod for me, please.”

Rhys didn’t. Tim sneered.

“Why don’t we pick up where you left us off?” he asked. “Go home. Leave the bottle. I’ll be fine.”

“No,” Rhys said, to all three statements.

Tim flexed his jaw. He glared at Rhys, a look that could send anyone running for the closest exit. A look with violence in it.

“I could take it from you,” Tim said quietly.

Rhys had to stop himself from smiling. He still wasn’t frightened. “No, Tim. You couldn’t,” he said, just as quiet.

Something seemed to surge behind Tim’s eyes. His chest expanded with a deep breath, the tendons on his neck straining with it. It felt like a wind-up, but Rhys wasn’t fooled. He stayed still. He kept his expression peaceful. He didn’t say another word. The big bad wolf might huff and puff, but Rhys knew his house would remain standing. He held Tim’s gaze.

All at once, Tim seemed to deflate. He blinked hard, his gaze snapped away, and sunk to the floor. His grip loosened, but he didn’t let go.

Rhys set the bottle gently on the shelf behind him.

“You’re an asshole,” Tim said, his voice thick.

“I know,” Rhys said. He touched his fingers gently to Tim’s hot cheek. Tim jerked his head away, but not before Rhys’ fingers brushed against something wet. Rhys settled instead with his hand on the back of Tim’s neck.

He took a breath and let it out. “I’m sorry, Tim,” he said. He had hoped it would’ve been easier to say, that maybe he’d matured enough to get better at it.

Tim stirred but didn’t raise his head. He pulled back, pulled away from Rhys. He scrubbed at his face and sighed.

“What are you sorry for,” he said, almost too low to hear. “I’m the one who made this mess.”

Rhys didn’t know if he was referring to the state of his apartment, or the state of everything between them. The latter seemed a little grandiose, but he was very drunk. Rhys felt a little drunk himself.

He wanted to reach out and tell Tim that it was their mess. They made it together, like the pair of idiots they were. He got as far as brushing his fingers against the back of Tim’s hand. He felt like he’d won a prize when Tim didn’t flinch away.

Tim sucked in a long, hitching breath. “You don’t even need me anymore,” he said, his voice shaking.

Rhys blinked, truly caught by surprise. “What’re you—?”

They both jumped when someone loudly knocked on the door.

“Shit, the neighbours,” Tim muttered, already moving away from Rhys, towards the front entrance. “Sorry, about the noise,” he said, louder. “Everything’s fine. I just—“

The door sang its cheerful three-note unlocking song and the knob turned before Tim could reach it and Rhys realised, a second before it opened, just who exactly he would see standing on the other side.

Jack stood in the hallway, like a controlled mirror image of Tim’s earlier scene. The look of white, mute outrage on his face was lessened only by the fact that he had a sleeping nine-year-old drooling on his shoulder.

“You were supposed,” Jack said, quiet and patient, “to come straight home.”

“You brought Angel?” Tim asked. “Jack, it’s almost 2am.”

Jack stepped inside. His gaze swept over the apartment, at the scattered cat food on the white tile, the open cupboards, the empty glass, and then finally at Rhys.

Rhys was ready for whatever outburst would come his way, but Jack merely pulled his lip back and looked away.

“Don’t worry about Angel. She can sleep through a tsunami.”

Tim sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “You can put her in my room,” he said but Jack was already on his way.

Rhys stood frozen in the corner, feeling like an actor who’d gone from a leading role to a bit part. Jack cast him a side-long look as he walked past, but otherwise said nothing.

He didn’t even seem surprised, Rhys realised. And then he wondered: how did Jack know Tim was home? How did he know to come _right now_?

Jack emerged a moment later, grabbed Rhys by his forearm and pulled him stumbling from the wall. “Thanks for the assist, pumpkin, but the adult’s here now. You’re not needed anymore.”

Tim stepped forward, but the drink had lowered his reflexes and Jack easily kept himself between them as he yanked the door open and shoved Rhys outside.

It didn’t stop Tim from trying. Rhys could just see him over Jack’s shoulder. “Rhys—!“

“Family only,” Jack said to Rhys and slammed the door.

Rhys stood there for several stunned seconds, listening to the muted sound to two grown men trying to have an argument without waking the small child sleeping in the next room.

“He tracked my phone,” Rhys said to the air. “Motherfucker.”

A problem for another day.

“—told you I didn’t _need_ —“ Tim’s voice, rising beyond an acceptable level, and Rhys wondered just how bad things had gotten that he could tell them apart so easily. Another problem for _another_ another day.

Jack hushed him, speaking lower and more quickly than his brother. An ever-green businessman, talking his way out of hot water. Rhys left them to it.

Tim was safe, Rhys thought as he stepped into the night. That was the only thing he could ask for.

Rhys thought about Tim’s face during their argument, how quickly that boiling anger went still and placid under Rhys’ own stare. As if it couldn’t maintain its heat. As if Rhys had leeched something from it. He pushed his hand through his hair.

No use reading too much into it, he decided. At least not tonight. Two in the morning was too fragile a time to go thinking about the meaning behind heated looks, softening hands, lowered gazes.

It would be different tomorrow, although Rhys expected he would not see Tim for at least another day. He hoped, for Tim’s sake, that Jack might take the next day off as well. Maybe they could keep Angel home from school, too.

Rhys dozed most of the way home. He roused himself long enough to pull out his phone.

Rhys: You’ve got tomorrow off.  
Rhys: I meant what I said. I’m sorry.

* * *

ATLAS PRICK: I’ve given Tim the day off.  
ATLAS PRICK: Keep him out of trouble, if you can.  
ATLAS PRICK: And don’t be too hard on him.  
ATLAS PRICK: I hope it was worth it, Jack.  
Jackass: mind yr own business

* * *

Rhys didn’t hear from Tim at all the next day. That was not terribly surprising, although Rhys found it a bit disappointing.

He had hoped Tim would respond to his texts. Or send an email. Even just a one word ‘thanks’ would’ve been nice. And not just because Tim rarely, if ever, said ‘thank you’ to Rhys—it would just be nice to hear from him. To know he was alive.

Don’t be melodramatic, Rhys told himself, again and again. Tim was fine. Jack was with him. If there was one thing Rhys trusted Jack to do—and that might very well be the case—it would be watching out for his brother. Even if he was the one who caused this mess in the first place.

There was nothing to be done, except work. And there was always plenty of that to keep Rhys busy, keep his hands from wandering towards his phone.

Todd was in a surprisingly fine mood all day, almost in counter-point to his boss’ gloom. Although Tim’s absence meant he had more work to do, he seemed to perform his tasks with a spring in his step. More than once, Rhys caught him eyeing Tim’s empty desk with an almost smug look.

“Shall I get your lunch, sir?” Todd asked.

Rhys grunted, his attention locked on his screens. He could feel a line of pain forming in his neck, a muscle tightening in a bad position. His eyes had begun to sting, and a different ache had started at his temples. His body’s minor complaints, which had at one point been so common-place that Rhys could ignore them, now caught him off-guard.

“What would you like?” Todd asked, his hands folded behind his back.

“I don’t know,” Rhys said. He sat back and rubbed at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, digging his fingers into the tight muscle. His back hurt too, he realised. Had it always been like this? “Vegan stuff. Something healthy.” He wasn’t even that hungry. “A salad. With protein.”

Todd bustled from the room with happy obedience. When he returned, Rhys still felt sore, and in a worse mood for it.

“Have you taken the opportunity to look at your google alerts this morning?” Todd asked innocently.

Rhys scowled at his phone—almost 70 new notifications in the last hour, but he could barely focus on any of them. His thumb hovered over his contacts list as Todd set down his salad, a side of corn bread, and utensils.

“This morning, sir?” Todd tried again when it became obvious Rhys hadn’t been paying attention.

Rhys sighed and set his phone down. “What about it?”

“The news,” Todd persisted. “Have you heard about the Aelya Show last night?”

Rhys looked up without raising his head, a biodegradable knife held in one hand.

“The Hyperion CEO was her guest,” Todd went on, heedless or ignorant of the short pier he was walking along. “Jack Lawrence?” he prompted, in case Rhys had forgotten the name of his corporate rival. “He was on to talk about his childhood. It’s… quite the salacious piece of news. It’s all over the tabloids now.” Todd spoke as he fumbled with his tablet, punching in a few commands. “Apparently, he had an unhappy childhood. Which is very unfortunate, of course,” he said, virtuously. “But it’s also…” He hemmed and hawed as he turned the tablet over and set it down on Rhys’ desk.

Rhys held Todd’s gaze for another beat, content to watch him struggle with what he intended to say next. He glanced down only when Todd began to turn pink, and pulled the tablet closer.

It was a news article, if something from a tabloid could ever be called that. There was a picture of Tim in his black suit and sunglasses, likely taken a few months ago, above a headline which proclaimed: ‘Substance Abuse Issues Rampant in Lawrence Family?’

Rhys’ heart sank. He snatched the tablet from his desk and began reading.

“It is an unfortunate situation of course,” Todd went on, sounding more confident. “But… Timothy is your bodyguard. As such, he will find himself in the public eye more often than not, _representing_ Atlas. Representing you, sir. I am not trying to say he’s bad at his job—“ Todd sounded grudging. “—but he might not be a good fit for our company. For the sake of your image, you may want to consider…” Todd trailed off.

Rhys pressed his lips together. Someone had taken a photo of Tim at Cutty’s last night. It was grainy, and a little blurry, and the lighting was bad, but under all those circumstances and under the Instagram filters, it was clearly Tim. Tim with his head in his hand, and the forest of empty bottles that Rhys had expected to see when he came to retrieve Tim, sitting on the table in front of him.

Rhys’ metal fingers pressed into the tablet’s leather case. Dammit. He’d done what he could, but he hadn’t thought about people posting images onto social media _before_ he’d arrived.

“I’m not suggesting you fire him of course,” Todd said gently. “But… perhaps you have him take a step back. A step further back,” he clarified. Rhys said nothing. His nostrils flared. “The board—“

The tablet clattered across Rhys’ desk, sliding to a stop just before the edge. Todd’s mouth snapped shut.

Rhys examined him for a moment. He sat back. “Todd?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Who is in charge of this company again?” Rhys asked.

Todd went from pink to red. “Um. I don’t—“

“The boss, Todd,” Rhys said. “The person responsible for Atlas and everyone who works for Atlas. Responsible for your job, even. Who is that again?”

Todd said nothing, but neither did Rhys. Only one of them was very, very good at weathering a blistering, hot silence. Only one of them knew how to wield it like a weapon.

Todd broke first, of course he did. “You are, sir.”

“That’s right,” Rhys said. He pressed the tips of his fingers together, leaning back in his chair, adopting one of his favourite poses: the condescending asshole in charge. “Leave staffing decisions to me, please.”

“It’s just—“ Oh, Todd must’ve eaten his Wheaties for breakfast, or maybe he’d slipped an extra shot into his espresso. He was seldom this feisty. “He’s taken the day off, hasn’t he? He never does that. A-and it says here in the news that he’d been drinking. A lot.” Todd’s voice faltered under Rhys’ serene stare. “It’s… not a good look for us.”

Rhys waited. This, at least, was where he felt most in his element. Letting someone babble, winding enough rope to hang themselves with. He tipped his head to one side and examined Todd.

“Are you looking for a department transfer, Todd?” he asked. Todd actually flinched. “Because I can see if PR needs an administrator. If that’s where your concern lies.”

“It’s— I’m not—“ Todd tried, turning redder.

“I can find another secretary,” Rhys went on pleasantly. “If I need to. If you’d rather work somewhere else. For someone else.”

“No!” Todd nearly burst. “No, no, of course I don’t. I… am very happy here,” he finished weakly.

Rhys smiled. “I can tell. Well, if you decide you’d rather spend your time looking over the tabloids for mentions of my employees, let me know. I can make enquiries on your behalf.”

“Thank you, sir.” Todd’s fingers worked at the hem of his grey suit.

“And that—“ Rhys waved his knife lazily at the tablet. “Wasn’t news. That was 500 words of baseless speculation. That was a tabloid looking to fill inches with something topical. It’s _nothing_.” Todd jumped backwards as Rhys’ knife cut a slash through the air.

“He— He was drinking, though,” Todd said, practically shoving his head through the noose. “Aren’t you worried?”

Rhys knew he was still smiling. He could tell he still was from the way all the heat and blood that’d built up behind the skin of Todd’s face began to drain away, leaving his face the colour of cheese curds.

“Go back to your desk, Todd,” Rhys said when he’d been silent for just a little too long.

The hell of it was, Rhys thought at he spread his napkin over his lap, Todd was right. Not all the shit about Tim affecting Atlas’ image—although he probably wasn’t wrong about that. But Tim had been drinking. And Rhys was worried. He picked at his salad without much interest, and looked at his phone.

His back and neck didn’t get any better, and the twinge of pain at his temples became a full blown headache by the end of the day. He rubbed at his stinging eyes and wondered just when he’d gotten so old that he couldn’t even sit at his desk all day without aching muscles. His obscenely expensive, wing-back leather office chair was intimidating, but it didn’t provide him with the best lumbar support. He wriggled a little in an attempt to get more comfortable.

“ _Sit up straight. Didn’t they teach you anything about posture in those fancy private schools?”_ Tim would nudge Rhys, press two fingers between his shoulder blades, until Rhys straightened. “ _And take a break, already. You keep rubbing your eye._ ”

Rhys glanced at his phone, an almost Pavolvian response. It was always Tim, hovering around Rhys, keeping an eye on him, after him about the things Rhys should’ve been doing himself. Looking out for Rhys when Rhys couldn’t be bothered to.

“ _You don’t even need me anymore._ ”

Rhys could’ve laughed. He ran his hand through his hair and marvelled, yet again, about the mess he’d made for them both.

Had Tim spent the whole day at home? If he had, Rhys hoped he hadn’t spent it alone. Maybe Jack had actually done something semi-decent and stayed home from work. Then again, Rhys considered as he kneaded his fingers into the back of his neck, spending the entire day with Jack in close quarters… Maybe that wasn’t such a kindness.

There’d been nothing in the news since. Jack had gone silent, and there were no new images from last night.

Rhys picked up his phone.

Rhys: I got lunch from that vegan place and there was no one around to complain about it.  
Rhys: My back and neck hurt. my head hurts. i had no one around to nag me about my posture.

Rhys stared at his screen, trying to think of something better to say. He felt the way he’d felt last night. He had too much to say, and he couldn’t find the right words to say it.

Or he could, and he was too much of a coward to say them. He stared at the little onscreen keyboard, and bit his lip. It wouldn’t take much. Tentatively, he typed in the ‘i’ and, feeling braver now that he’d dipped his toe in, typed out the ‘m’, ‘i’, ‘s’, ‘s’.

He stopped when a new message bumped his further up the screen.

Timothy Lawrence: u should go home.

Rhys’ heart knocked against his chest. It was almost ugly, what the sight of Tim’s name on his screen did to him. The shock it sent through him, not unlike the feeling he got whenever he reattached his cybernetic too quickly. A jolt under his skin, down his spine. He looked down at his partially completed message and chewed his lip.

He erased it.

Rhys: how do you know i’m not home already?

And waited. He sat in his darkened office, as his employees trickled out onto the streets far, far below. The violet and blue glow of his screens were the only lights to see by. If Rhys wanted, he could turn his chair around and watch the city come alive, see the lights come on from every window.

Finally, Rhys saw the bouncing ellipses that told him Tim was typing.

It went on for a while. Rhys rubbed his damp palm off on his pant leg, looked at his work screens for two seconds before turning back to his phone.

Finally, _finally_ , Tim’s message appeared.

Timothy Lawrence: b/c i know you

Rhys blinked. It took Tim almost a full minute to type that? Rhys would have given half his fortune to learn just what Tim had been typing, and erasing, and likely re-typing.

I know you too, Rhys thought. After giving it some consideration, _without_ typing it first, because he wasn’t an amateur, he began to write.

Rhys: it’s hard to remember when to go home without my pain in the ass bodyguard dragging me away.

Good. That felt good. It felt like something he wanted to say, a more palatable sentiment. A morsel of a larger, heavier truth. The ellipses appeared almost immediately. Rhys’ mood picked up.

Timothy Lawrence: thats rich  
Timothy Lawrence: coming from the biggest pain in the ass in the building  
Rhys: no.  
Timothy Lawrence: and that’s saying something  
Rhys: wrong.  
Rhys: i’m only the second biggest pain in the ass  
Rhys: you’ve got the gold medal

Rhys started typing ‘which is why’ before his thumbs went still. He breathed out hard through his nose. He felt like he was skirting close to something. Tim was like a wild deer Rhys had somehow lured into a clearing. He had to be careful, or he would scare him off.

Timothy Lawrence: ha.  
Timothy Lawrence: listen  
Timothy Lawrence: i was going to say this in person but i’m afraid i might lose my nerve

Rhys froze, watching the screen as Tim typed. A whole world of possibilities opened like a pit in his imagination, the sort of things Tim might want to say to him in person. Maybe he wanted to talk about last night. He almost certainly did. Rhys felt certain he did too, but he would’ve waited.

Maybe Tim had something good to say. Something about… the way things were between them. Of what Rhys might mean to him. Rhys’ hands shook.

Timothy Lawrence: i’m sorry, rhys.  
Timothy Lawrence: i never wanted you to see me like that  
Timothy Lawrence: i never want anyone to see me like that

Tim typed for a while. Rhys forced himself to stay patient, but the seconds he spent watching the screen felt like the longest he’d ever experienced in his life.

Timothy Lawrence: i thought i would be better about… everything.  
Timothy Lawrence: i knew what jack was going to do and i thought i was prepared but…  
Timothy Lawrence: i don’t know  
Timothy Lawrence: it hit me harder than i thought it would  
Timothy Lawrence: and…

Tim stopped typing. Rhys’ heart might’ve stopped too. He waited, breathing shallowly, until the ellipses reappeared.

Timothy Lawrence: look  
Timothy Lawrence: i went too far last night  
Timothy Lawrence: i have no excuse  
Timothy Lawrence: i’m sorry  
Timothy Lawrence: if you’d like to look for another bodyguard i would understand

Rhys knocked his knee against his desk. His phone slipped out of his hand and clattered onto the floor. He cursed and leaned over the arm of his chair while Tim filled the screen with messages.

Timothy Lawrence: i know i haven’t exactly been the best employee up until now  
Timothy Lawrence: and the fallout from this thing could get ugly  
Timothy Lawrence: people probably saw me last night

Phone back in hand, Rhys hit the call button. Despite the fact that Tim was almost certainly looking at his phone at that very second, it rang four times before he picked up.

“Are you out of your mind?” Rhys demanded as soon the line opened. “I don’t care about last night. I don’t care that you got drunk, or if people saw you getting drunk, or what it might do to Atlas’ reputation. _None of that matters to me._ ”

Rhys desperately wished he was at Tim’s place, to have this conversation in person. He’d never hated the distance of a phone more than he did at that moment.

“I don’t want to look for another bodyguard! You’re the only person I want!” The words out before he could stop them, his mind too heated to pay attention to what his mouth was saying.

By the time he caught up, it was too late. Silence rang like a bell on the other end of the line. He couldn’t even hear Tim breathing. Rhys felt as if his soul had fallen out, sunk down the 80 or so floors to the ground, and then sunk further down to the sewers. His new home.

“For the job,” he said weakly, when the silence became too much.

He heard Tim exhale, like a sigh. “Whatever you say, boss.”

Rhys’ heart lurched. “Are you coming in tomorrow?” No reply. “You can take it off, if you’d like. You’ve got plenty of PTO accumulated.” Rhys had no idea if that was true, but he knew it didn’t matter. No one in HR was going to come after Tim for this.

Tim huffed. “Yeah, I’m sure I do. But no. I might be a little hung over, but I’ll be in tomorrow.”

“You didn’t have any more to drink tonight, did you?” Rhys asked.

“Fuck no. I can’t even look at a bottle right now. I’m not as young as I used to be and it’s been a long time since I went on a binge like that.” Another sigh. “It’ll be a long time before I go on another one.”

“Oh.” Rhys sank back in his seat, relaxing. “The dreaded two-day hangover?”

“Two days if I’m lucky. Pretty sure I was doing shots last night. I may have challenged someone to a drinking contest.”

Rhys smiled. “Yikes.”

“Yeah. A lot of it’s kind of blurry.” Tim went quiet.

Rhys turned his chair at last, pointing himself at the massive window he usually ignored. He watched the river of lights below and listened to Tim’s breathing. It was almost meditative.

“I’m not going to lie to you, Rhys. It’s blurry, true, but it’s not black-out. I remember what I did last night. How I behaved. I’m—“ His voice hitched. “I’m really sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Rhys said quietly. “I wasn’t scared. I knew you wouldn’t hurt me.”

Clouds had gathered above, blue and grey in the reflected lights of the city. The sky looked low and close. Tim’s breathing was uneven. Now and then, Rhys heard a very quiet sniff.

“Fuck. What are we doing here, Rhys?”

Rhys drew his legs up and rested his chin on one knee. Sitting the way he used to sit when he was much, much younger. He contemplated the right answer while he watched the twinkling of car headlamps below.

What was the best way forward? The one that would keep Tim close and keep Rhys safe? Rhys knew that things had changed between them. It was almost ironic how his attempts to push Tim away had back-fired so spectacularly.

But Rhys had made the choice to return to Tim. He’d kept making it all night, and he intended to go on making it. If this was a mess, then it was theirs to make.

Rhys didn’t know what he wanted to happen next. Maybe if he and Tim were in the same room, he might find inspiration. As it was, the distance made everything between them feel fragile. And Rhys really didn’t want to scare Tim.

“We’re…” Rhys hesitated.

And maybe, just maybe, he was still being a damn coward.

“We’re friends,” he said. “And I’m sorry, too. For everything that happened.” He wrapped his arm around his legs and pulled them tight to his chest. He had to say it. “For trying to push you away. I…”

Tim’s breathing seemed to even out as Rhys listened, as he tried to find the right words. Maybe the distance made this a little easier. If he had to face Tim right now, he didn’t know what he would do next.

“I got scared,” Rhys said. “And it was stupid. It won’t happen again. I want us to— to be friends.” He swallowed.

Tim didn’t reply. Rhys could see himself, a dim reflection in the glass. His face almost hidden by the low light, lost in shine of his monitors. He could see the golden glow of his ECHOeye, and the blue light of the phone against his face.

“Friends, huh.” Tim sounded rough, tired. Like the last five minutes had leached something from him.

“If you want to.” Rhys hated how small he sounded.

Another sigh, a louder one. Like Tim was exhaling directly into Rhys’ ear. Rhys felt his face grow warm.

“Yeah. Jesus.” Tim laughed. “I could use another friend.”

“Seems to me like you made some nice ones last night,” Rhys said, a little relieved and disappointed. Had he really expected Tim to fight him?

“Were those people real? The hot blond and the blue haired lady?”

“They were,” Rhys confirmed, smothering a green spike at the mention of a ‘hot blond’. “The blond nearly punched me.”

“Oh, wow. I guess I thought I imagined that.” Tim’s voice became a little strained, as if he were stretching. He sighed again, a quiet release.

“You didn’t. You stopped him,” Rhys said, smiling.

“Someone had to,” Tim said.

Rhys hummed in agreement. He listened to Tim’s breathing, to the very distant, faint sounds coming from far below. The blare of sirens and the grumble of traffic. It really was quite peaceful.

“I should go,” Tim said.

Rhys stiffened. “Tim—!” He hadn’t meant to speak so suddenly, but the thought of losing this tenuous connection sent a jolt down his spine.

Ridiculous, of course. It wasn’t as if he was losing Tim.

“The next time you want to drink like— like you did yesterday,” Rhys said. “Call me first, okay?”

“You volunteering to be my sponsor, boss?” Tim sounded amused.

“No, not like that. I mean… Call me so you don’t have to drink alone,” he said. Tim went quiet. “I’m always looking for an excuse to drink, so…”

“Yeah. Yeah, alright. I’ll call you next time,” Tim said.

“Good,” Rhys said, meaning it.

“I really should go. The beasts are getting hungry and I need to sleep off what I can of this hang over.”

“Okay. Good luck,” Rhys said.

“Thanks,” Tim said drily. “Good night, boss.”

“Good night, Tim.”

* * *

Rhys arrived early the next morning. He hadn’t slept well, and it showed in his face. No amount of $400 face cream could hide the dark smudges in the hollows of his eyes. Tim would have his work cut out for him this morning.

Rhys’ heart gave a weak flip. That, of course, was the very reason for his poor sleep. Suppose Tim didn’t come in after all? Suppose he decided that this job was too much for him? They had a nice talk yesterday, but it was a long night between then and now, and all sorts of things could happen in the hours between sunrise and sunset.

That was the trouble with people. Even the people you thought were dependable. They weren’t, they never could be, not the way Rhys wanted them to be. People were fickle. Minds could change. Hearts, the most treacherous of all, could change. The person you thought you could trust could have both change, and suddenly they weren’t the same person anymore. And Rhys wasn’t the same person to them. Didn’t mean the same thing he once did to them.

He called up his work screens and tried to bury himself in his inbox. A good seventeen string email would keep him from fretting. He typed out terse replies and, as the sun began to crest above the horizon at last, he found his gaze flicking to the sealed office doors more and more.

Moxxi had emailed him. Apparently, Sonia had gotten back to her about their disastrous date. Rhys hadn’t even thought about her since he left her at the restaurant with a too-brief apology. He thought about her now, staring at Moxxi’s gentle but chiding email.

She had seemed quite nice. Or, if not entirely nice, then there wasn’t any malice behind her attitude. He had appreciated how opinionated and confident she was, qualities he’d always found attractive in anyone.

‘Please let me know if you’d like to come around and talk about other potential matches,’ Moxxi wrote. Rhys hovered his pointer over the delete button.

Sonia was good. He’d screwed things up with her, but there could be others like her. Safe. Easy. Things Tim wasn’t.

He could be friends with Tim. That was what Tim needed and that was exactly what Rhys would be. That was the best, and safest, option for them both.

Rhys sighed. He replied with a quick apology, and a promise he would be in touch soon.

By the time 7:30am rolled around, Rhys had all but given up on getting any work done. He watched the door, ears primed for any sound of movement, like a dog waiting for his master to come home at last.

When Rhys heard the elevator, he nearly punched the air. He snapped his attention back to his screens in time to hear the sound of the security locks disengaging. A small ping at the lower right corner informed him that his employee had arrived.

The door opened and Tim stepped inside. Rhys had practiced this in his head enough times that he felt confident about what to do next. He looked up casually, his chin resting on his cybernetic hand, and met Tim’s gaze.

Tim actually paused. Only for the briefest space of a second, but Rhys caught it. When their eyes met, it was almost as if time stopped.

Stupid, of course. That sort of thing didn’t really happen. Real life wasn’t like the songs, or the movies, or the sitcoms, or the countless stories that filled everyone’s heads with those ridiculous notions about… about…

About love.

The spell broke. Tim approached the desk with two thermoses of coffee, and their usual Friday morning breakfast. Rhys knew he needed to look away, but he felt incapable. He felt helpless. He watched Tim like there was nothing else he could think of doing.

Tim set down the thermos and cleared his throat quietly. “You okay, boss?” he asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Fine,” Rhys said, his voice rough and weak.

“I told you that I’d be coming in today,” Tim said as he turned towards the sideboard.

“Right. I remember,” Rhys said. He tried to think of something better to say as Tim pulled out their dishes and set up their breakfast, but everything he could think of sounded very, very foolish. His head was filled with a hot, pink mist.

Tim set down Rhys’ plate and utensils, seemingly intent on his task. From this close, Rhys could see that the tops of his ears had turned red. He looked better, at least. His face was clean-shaven and, while the dark half-moons under his eyes suggested he might’ve had the same trouble sleeping last night as Rhys had, his eyes were clear.

When he looked up at last, he found Rhys staring at him. Rhys twitched back an inch, pulling more space, more air, between them.

Everything had changed. Rhys was a damn idiot to think otherwise.

Tim looked uncertain for a painful second, but when his gaze fell below Rhys’ eyes, the expression dropped away.

“Did you stay here all night?” he demanded.

“No,” Rhys replied quickly. He sounded defensive, even though he knew he was telling the truth.

Tim sighed and pushed the breakfast aside. “You’ve got circles _again_.”

“I went home,” Rhys insisted as Tim pulled the topmost drawer open.

“You weren’t up all night reading your fan forum, were you?” Tim asked as he uncapped the primer.

Rhys assured him that he hadn’t. Tim clucked his tongue like the mother hen he always was as he started applying the primer. Rhys tipped his head back and looked up to the ceiling as Tim worked. The pink mist in his head had finally cleared, and his higher thoughts returned at last.

Strangely, Rhys didn’t feel excited. He felt oddly calm, safe in the hands of their shared routine. This was something they’d been doing for almost a year now. Even in the last few weeks, when Rhys tried to push Tim away, he’d allowed this.

At the time, he told himself it was only because this was part of Tim’s duties—even if they were a bit unorthodox—but now he wondered if he had been too weak to give it up. His daily excuse to be under Tim’s hands, to feel his fingers on the underside of his jaw, tilting his head. To feel them on his cheeks, on his lips, soft and delicate. It was soothing.

“You don’t get to fall asleep _right now_ ,” Tim said quietly.

Rhys hadn’t even realised he’d let his eyes close. “Sorry,” he said.

Tim sat back. He recapped and rescrewed the lids on Rhys’ morning routine. He slipped from his perch on Rhys’ desk, returned the creams and powders to the drawer, and slid it shut. He turned his back on Rhys and began walking back to the sideboard.

“What’s the plan for today, boss?” he asked as he grabbed his plate.

Rhys watched him. He couldn’t stop.

Tim set his breakfast on the opposite side of Rhys’ desk. “Boss?”

“I don’t know,” Rhys admitted helplessly. “I don’t know what I’m doing today.”

“That’s a first.” Tim spread his napkin out on his lap.

Rhys looked at his screens like they held the answers for him. They probably did, somewhere, but he’d forgotten about his schedule and all the boxes in his calendar.

“Todd’ll be along shortly,” Tim said as he picked up his lox bagel. “He’ll set you straight. Pretty sure he reads your calendar before bed every night.”

Rhys laughed. He shook his head. “Breakfast first,” he decided. “I’ll figure the rest out later.”

Tim smiled, and agreed.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Sorry the summary is not... super great. 
> 
> Come on over to my tumblr some time: http://nothingbutchaff.tumblr.com


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